

Book 1^05 2-IkL 
(iopyrightN? 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 




DARCY PINCKNEY 




DARCY PINCKNEY 


BY 


SUE PINCKNEY 

u 


Author of “In the Southland,” etc. 



New York and Washington 
THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 
1906 


library of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

OCT 241906 

Copyrl^nt Entry 

pr7(S 

CLASS cX XXcm No. 
COPY B. 


Copyright, 1906 

BY SUE PINCKNEY 


Lovingly dedicated to the memory of my darling brother 

JOHN McPherson pinckney 

Soldier, Statesman, and Prohibition Leader 
He was 

“The Knightliest of a knightly race 
Who, since the days of old. 

Have kept the lamp of chivalry 
Alight in hearts of gold.” 



DARCY PINCKNEY 

CHAPTER I 

‘‘These diamonds are too rich and 
rare, dear father!” exclaimed a handsome, 
haughty-looking girl as she clasped the ele- 
gant circlet of gems around her slender 
throat. 

“I was almost certain, dear, that the gift 
would suit your fastidious taste.” 

“So it does, papa. It is perfectly exquis- 
ite. You are ever kind and thoughtful, and 
my casket is full of jewels, all your gifts at 
different times. Yet yield to me, papa; do 
not buy any more jewelry for me. I am 
tired of diamonds, sick almost of the glitter 
of wealth. A dim foreboding of evil comes 
over me. I have tried but cannot banish the 
feeling.” 

The gentleman looked amazed. “What 
evil is it that you dread, my child? Are you 
not the petted and only daughter of the 
wealthiest banker in this large city? Those 
of your own age worship you, the aged fol- 
low you with eyes of gratitude, whilst your 
childish admirers are a host. Rich, hand- 
some, talented, worshiped by all, what is 
there to give you a moment’s fear of the fu- 
ture ? Banish those shadowy ideas, my 


Darcy Pinckney 


child. Wear your gems. To please you I 
will not give you any more. So cheer up — 
I wish to see you the belle of the ball to- 
night.” 

“Thanks, papa! I am so glad that you 
have made me this promise. I will do my 
best to please you; yet if I fail to become 
the cynosure of all eyes, the most admired 
of the many beauties who will be there, you 
must not blame me; for indeed it will be no 
fault of mine.” 

The lady was admirably fitted to reign as 
queen in the world of fashion. Tall and 
queenly in figure, she had a statuesque-look- 
ing face, which in shape and feature re- 
sembled those lovely Madonnas painted by 
artists of the olden time; complexion clear, 
yet dark ; large brown eyes, beautifully 
arched brows, and lashes that seemed a jetty 
fringe as they rested on her lovely face ; fea- 
tures straight and faultless, the smooth 
broad forehead at once denoting intellect 
and firmness; soft hair of a rich purple 
black combed partly over the brow, dis- 
posed in heavy folds at the back of the su- 
perb head, making a perfect headdress, more 
dainty than the most noted Parisian hair- 
dresser could compose. The coil was fas- 
tened by a couple of golden pins inlaid with 
pearl, surmounted by diamond crescents. 
Those splendid jewels would in days of old 
have obtained the ransom of a prince. The 


Darcy Pinckney 


9 


lady, Miss Eugenia Hartly, was dressed with 
her usual recherche taste, as the acknowl- 
edged leader of the ton should be. A dress of 
rose-colored silk, trimmed with lace of the 
deepest, finest texture, — blonde lace worth 
in itself a fortune, — the flounces of lace 
looped here and there with pearls and flow- 
ers. A simple rosebud of snowy whiteness 
confined the dress at the neck. A rich white 
sash deeply fringed was looped around the 
slender waist. She wore no jewels except 
those just then presented by her father — 
necklace and bracelets of diamonds, also the 
crescents in her magnificent hair. Her small 
feet were encased in dainty slippers of white 
satin, her beautiful arms covered with folds 
of blonde lace; hands small and soft, be- 
tokening both gentle birth and wealth. 

She was adorned to attend a ball to be 
given at one of the most fashionable houses 
in the city of Orleans. 

Mrs. Lee, the wife of a wealthy merchant, 
had issued invitations to the elite of the city, 
asking their attendance at the “coming out^’ 
ball given in honor of her daughter. May, a 
lovely girl just then returned from a fash- 
ionable boarding-school in Charleston, to 
grace the splendid mansion in which her pa- 
rents resided. It was to this ball that Mr. 
Hartly was to conduct his lovely daughter. 

“The carriage is at the door, Eugenia.'’ 

“I will be ready in a moment, papa." And 


10 


Darcy Pinckney 


as she spoke she clipped a japonica and fas- 
tened it in her dark hair, then throwing a 
scarf around her shoulders, she placed a 
small gloved hand on her father’s arm, say- 
ing, ‘^Come and see how youthful you look ; 
almost as young as my brother Ernest. Do 
you not, papa?” 

Mr. Hartly smiled as he glanced at her 
pure face and noble figure reflected in the 
tall mirror before which they stood. 

''Only another one of your vagaries, 
dear,” he replied. 

"It is strange, passing strange,” mur- 
mured the girl in her clear silvery accents, 
"that I resemble neither my mother nor 
yourself. I wish that I had your noble face 
or the gentle one of dear mamma — the 
mamma I never knew.” 

"You were very much like your mother 
when you were quite small, my child, and 
still resemble her I think.” 

"I do wish that I were more like mamma, 
for I admire not my dusky face. But come, 
papa, it is time we start to get there at the 
proper hour. Oh I wish that Ernest had ar- 
rived !” 

Passing from the spendid drawing-room 
and on through the hall, the street door was 
opened and they entered the elegant car- 
riage. The blood-bays were started in a gal- 
lop, and before many moments their 
haughty mistress was deposited at the door 


Darcy Pinckney 


11 


of Edward Lee's princely home. The large, 
magnificently furnished drawing-room was 
already crowded with guests. Eugenia 
Hartly was soon the center of a brilliant 
throng. She was greeted with many compli- 
mentary remarks, and then came eager in- 
quiries, ‘Where is Ernest?” “Has he not 
returned?” “Will he be here?” To one 
and all she calmly answered that her brother 
was still abroad. 

“I was in hopes that he would be here!” 
exclaimed Ella Mason, a fair young girl with 
golden hair and bright blue eyes. “I am 
so disappointed, after having taken so much 
trouble to fix these troublesome curls in a 
bandeau, and all for naught.” 

“Leslie Lee shall hear of this,” laughingly 
whispered dark-eyed Julia Ashley. “Ah! 
here he comes. Mr. Lee, this little fairy is 
wishing for the return of Mr. Hartly.” 

“You do not care, do you?” and with a 
winsome smile the young girl gave her lover 
her soft hand, while he replied in whispered 
words, 

“I care not, for well do I know that the 
gentle heart beats for me alone.” And 
drawing her hand through his arm, he led 
her to join the cotillion then being fprmed. 

Eugenia Hartly was still surrounded by a 
crowd of gay young girls who were eagerly 
chatting about the absent one, the one who 
had left his home years since a beardless 


12 Darcy Pinckney 

boy, who if report spoke truly would return 
a traveled and an accomplished gentleman. 
The ladies noticed not that they had at- 
tracted the attention of a stately, noble-look- 
ing stranger standing near the deep em- 
brasure of one of the windows opening on 
the street. The large dark eyes of the gen- 
tleman first rested on one, then another fair 
face of the group of city flowers, glancing 
along until his gaze was arrested by the 
dark, lovely face of Eugenia, who looked as 
usual, calm and haughty, a contrast to the 
lovely girls by whom she was surrounded. 
An acquaintance stepped forward and en- 
gaged her hand for the dance. There must 
have been magnetism in the glance, for on 
looking up, she met the gaze of the stranger. 
A burning blush for a moment suffused her 
face. The gentleman started, while a tran- 
sient flush also covered his swarthy brow. 
“I have surely seen that sweet face ere now,’' 
he thought; then mentally exclaimed, ‘‘She 
shall be queen of my destiny.” 

A few seconds later Leslie Lee asked the 
young man’s pardon for his thoughtlessness 
in not having sooner introduced him to 
some of the ladies, adding, 

^‘Come, Mr. Morton, and let me make you 
acquainted with my lady mother and sweet 
little sister. They will with pleasure intro- 
duce you to any of our guests.” 

“Certainly,” replied the gentleman, and 


Darcy Pinckney 


13 


with an easy air followed the young man 
across the room. 

“Mr. Morton, allow me to introduce you 
to my mother, Mrs. Lee,” as they passed in 
front of an elderly lady. “Mother, dear, you 
must find some of these pretty girls for him 
to dance with. Where is May? Ah! here 
she comes; just in time, little sister; this 
is my friend, Mr. Morton. And now Miss 
May Lee you must make him known to the 
fairest of your friends, so au revoir to you 
both, as I have a partner for the next 
dance.” 

They were soon conversing as though 
they were old friends when her hand was 
claimed by an acquaintance. 

“Excuse me if you please, Mr. Morton.” 

“I will,” he replied; “remember, the next 
set is ours.” He soon became aware that 
the lady whom a short time before he had 
sworn should be his destiny was seated near 
him, conversing in an undertone to a lady 
friend. Every word was perfectly audible to 
him, an unwilling listener, yet so situated 
that he did not like to move. 

“Julia, do you think Clara Hume will be 
here to-night?” 

“Oh, no. May wished to invite her, but 
Mrs. Lee only wished the elite of the city to 
attend her daughter’s ball. She wishes only 
the aristocracy to visit May. I should not 
be uncharitable though, if it is only for 


14 


Darcy Pinckney 


May’s sake. She is a sweet girl, half child, 
half woman; the wealth of the Indies could 
not spoil her. Yet I am so sorry that 
Clara was not invited. Do you know, Eu- 
genia, I imagine that she resembles you — 
yes, enough to be your sister. One can 
scarcely tell you apart, only her eyes are not 
so dark and her complexion is fairer.” 

“Yes, I am often told of this strange re- 
semblance. There is a vast difference, 
though; she is so fair and gentle; I am, 
you know, the exact opposite. I am sorry 
that she is not here. Poor girl, it is the first 
slight that she has ever received. And she 
is so sensitive, as well as intelligent and re- 
fined. Poverty is a sad disgrace. My wealth 
is my passport hither, intellect goes for 
naught.” 

Mr. Morton liked her better for those few 
words ; under like circumstances they would 
have been his very own. “And the name,” 
he mused, “Eugenia, that of my little sister. 
I will seek her acquaintance.” He stated 
his wish to May Lee, and was introduced to 
his own sister. Had a thunderbolt fallen at 
his feet he would ha^e been no more as- 
tounded than at hearing the words, “Miss 
Hartly,” pronounced by the silvery voice of 
his youthful hostess. Were the fond hopes 
raised within the past hour to be blasted 
thus? He had heard extravagant praises of 
his sister’s beauty while abroad, and had 


Darcy Pinckney 


15 


come unknown to the ball to witness the ad- 
miration she attracted wherever she went. 
He had not once dreamed that this superb 
being was his sister. She had grown from 
the brown-eyed, delicate baby, to be a dark- 
faced, handsome woman. 

Regaining his composure, he seated him- 
self beside her. She asked of times abroad, 
also if he had not met such and such persons 
during his travels, and when learning that 
he was just from Paris eagerly inquired if 
he had not seen young Mr. Hartly while 
there ? 

“Yes, he was there when I came through.'' 

“Did he know that you were coming to 
America ?" 

“No, he did not then know my route." 

A set was forming and he led her to the 
dance. Should he make himself known? 
Yes; then on the morrow he would go 
away. As his dark eyes followed her stately 
yet graceful movements he wondered not at 
the praise bestowed on his peerless sister. 
He had seen lovely women abroad, yet none 
could compare with this flower that bloomed 
in his southern home, and he sighed as he 
felt that his dream of love was broken. 

Ere long the dawn of day began to peep, 
and the lovely butterflies of fashion, with 
drowsy lids and tired feet, were soon step- 
ping into their carriages to be whirled away 
to their respective homes. 


16 


Darcy Pinckney 


Morton, whom we know as Ernest Hartly, 
made himself known to his father, telling of 
his masquerade, and promising to accom- 
pany his sister home. 

Eugenia was somewhat surprised when 
Mr. Morton stepped into the carriage and 
seated himself beside her. 

‘‘Excuse me! I will explain all,” he ex- 
claimed, as a flush of surprise and indigna- 
tion mantled her face. “Forgive me for this 
masquerade! Genie! sister! do you not 
know me?” 

A spasm of pain pierced the girl’s breast. 
For one moment she bowed her head to hide 
the pallor of her face. 

“Are you angry with me, Genie? Not 
one word of greeting for your only brother.” 

“Brother,” and she wound her soft arms 
about his neck, “dear brother, do not deem 
me cold or angry. I was so surprised to find 
that you were here; and to play off thus,” 
she added, as if to hide the tears sounding 
in her voice. “You merit a scolding. Did 
you also deceive papa ?” 

“I think that father never would have 
known me had I not introduced myself to 
him; and business compels me to leave you 
very soon — to-morrow, perhaps.” 

“And is this business so very urgent that 
my brother, who has been from home his 
whole life, now that he is here, cannot stay 
with us awhile?” 


Darcy Pinckney 


17 


“Yes, so very urgent, dear, that I possibly 
may not remain a day.’’ And the soft hand 
that rested in his own was clasped with pas- 
sionate fierceness. 

On reaching home she ushered him into 
the drawing-room. Her father was asleep 
on the sofa. Arousing him, she retired to 
her own apartment, a new sorrow tugging 
at her heartstrings. 


7 


CHAPTER II 


It was on the night of Miss May Lee’s ball 
that a neat, graceful figure was seen hurry- 
ing along the brilliantly lighted street on 
which Mr. Lee resided. Glancing at the 
splendid mansion, she could see the forms of 
elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen 
through the open windows, and almost 
paused in her rapid walk to listen to the 
glorious music that sounded in those 
spacious halls, whilst she inhaled the de- 
licious perfume wafted from the wax-like 
flowers with which the house was garlanded. 
It was getting late though, and with the 
words, ‘‘Oh ! how could May treat me 
thus,” she hastened on. Clara Hume was 
governess in Mr. Walsingham’s family, 
where she was ever treated with respect and 
love. She was returning home. Entering a 
small, neat parlor, she handed a package to 
her mother, a dove-eyed, gentle-looking 
woman, who was busily engaged sewing on 
a boy’s jacket. The other members of the 
family consisted of two boys and a little, 
fairy-like girl. The youngest boy, Edward, 
was away at school. Robert, the eldest son, 
entering upon manhood’s wide and noble 
stage graced with talents of the highest 
order, gave promise of becoming an orna- 


Darcy Pinckney 


19 


ment to society. He arose as his sister en- 
tered the room, and untying her hat strings, 
seated her on a sofa. 

“Dear Clara, you seem tired; you must 
rest awhile. I like this plan of your teaching 
less and less every day. I have only been 
here a few moments and intended going to 
accompany you home, but Lily wished to 
go, and was only ready as you came.’’ 

“I came earlier than usual, that is why I 
missed the pleasure of your company,” she 
replied, looking fondly at him. “How do 
you like the dress, mother?” 

“It is very nice, just what I was wishing 
for.” Adding, “You were wrong, my child, 
to spend your hard earnings for me.” 

“Who could be more worthy of my care 
than my good, kind mother? You must let 
me make it up for you. I do so long to see 
you dressed in your favorite color, royal 
purple; it is mine, too.” A warm kiss was 
full recompense to the girl for her thought- 
fulness. Stroking the golden curls of the 
little one nestling beside her she said, “Does 
not Lily wish something, too? Which 
would please my pet best, a doll-baby or a 
book?” 

“The book, sister, if it has pretty stories 
and fine pictures.” 

“It has both; and you shall have Miss 
Dolly too.” Taking a parcel from her 
satchel, she handed it to the child, whose 


20 


Darcy Pinckney 


pleasure was unbounded on finding a pret- 
tily bound story book and a beautiful wax 
doll with great blue eyes and golden curls. 

‘‘See, mamma, my book, and my dolly, 
too. Oh, isn’t she pretty. I love you a 
thousand times, Sis Clara. I’ll give you so 
many kisses. You are such a good Sis 
Clara; isn’t she, Buddie Robbie?” 

“Yes, Lily, we could not find another sis- 
ter half so good were we to seek the wide 
world over.” 

“Here is a cap for Neddie. Do you think 
it will suit him?” 

“Yes, my dear, he was wishing only the 
last time that he was here for a cap.” 

“I am so glad that I got it then. I scarcely 
knew what would please him.” 

“I have not forgotten you, dear Robert; 
this is your gift. My face is pictured there 
to watch over and keep you out of mischief, 
and from being a bad boy — as if either were 
possible.” Then more earnestly, “Is it a 
good picture? Please tell me.” 

“Yes, it is the perfect image of yourself, 
and I will value this, my sweet sister’s part- 
ing gift, as one of my most highly cherished 
treasures. I start away to-morrow, sister, 
and when I return it will be not to see you 
slighted as you have been to-night.” A 
flush of indignation swept across his usually 
calm face. 

“Do not be at all troubled about it, dear. 


Darcy Pinckney 


21 


indeed I do not mind it. I am far happier 
here at home (and it is so seldom that I can 
come), to be with you dear ones. Yes, hap- 
pier than I could possibly have been even 
had I been invited to and attended the ball. 
So do not let it trouble you at all.’' 

At that moment the door-bell rang, and 
the next. May Lee, in her ball-dress, a light 
mantilla thrown over her shoulders, stood 
before them. Offering her tiny hand to 
Mrs. Hume, then blushingly to Robert, she 
impulsively threw her arms around Clara’s 
neck. 

‘*Dear Clara, I knew not of your invita- 
tion’s having been lost. I wrote them my- 
self. Oh! I am so sorry it did not reach 
you. It was only by accident that I heard 
of this.” And tears filled the blue eyes. 

“Do not be worried about it, Mamie. I 
only deemed this as one of the many harsh 
lessons that I would be compelled to learn 
— that in the world’s opinion the governess 
is no fit companion for the heiress.” 

“What care I for the world’s opinion? 
Oh ! Clara, Clara, you judge me harshly. If 
you only knew.” And she hid her face in the 
young girl’s lap. 

“May,” and the young man clasped one of 
the small trembling hands, “I will tell our 
secret now. Sister, this little one has prom- 
ised some day to become my wife.” 

“I will welcome her warmly as a sister; 


22 


Darcy Pinckney 


indeed this could not make her dearer to 
me than she has always been. She has ever 
seemed so much like one of the family that 
we have loved her as such. And now, dear,^’ 
speaking to the shy, trembling girl, ‘‘take 
this nice rocking chair here by the window 
where it is cool and pleasant. Mamma and 
Lily will entertain you; Robert also,’’ as 
she glanced teasingly at him. “I will soon 
return.” 

The little Lily was soon seated beside 
Miss Lee, telling of sister Clara’s goodness. 
Suddenly remembering that dollie must 
have a new dress cut out, she frisked away 
to mamma and busily engaged herself with 
her doll, much to Robert’s delight; for, 
lover-like, he wished to hear again and again 
from his lovely betrothed that she would 
not forget him while he was away. 

“Any more secrets to tell me, Robert?” 
and Clara stood beside them, with a dainty 
tray in her hand. Not waiting for an answer 
she added, “Banish him, Mamie. You did 
not come in time to take tea with us, so you 
must not refuse a cup, and I know that you 
will try a cake when I say that they are 
Lily’s first attempt (she would try), conse- 
quently they are not as nice as usual.” 

Lily was praised and petted, called a smart 
little housekeeper, and the lady arose to go. 

“What will Eugenia think? She promised 
to make excuses for me.” Bidding a tender 


Darcy Pinckney 


23 


adieu to the family, she shyly placed her 
hand in Robert’s. He handed her to the 
carriage and seated himself beside her. 
Many were the vows passed between the 
young lovers ere they reached her father’s 
mansion. 

“You will be true, May, and wait for me 
until I can win wealth to lay at your feet?” 

“I will wait,” she murmured. 

He left her at her father’s door, the young 
girl to reenter the ball-room, her heart 
throbbing with delight; for would he not 
win fame, and he would return some time 
to claim her as his own. The young man 
returned home, filled with a new, strange 
happiness. Had she not said, “I will wait.” 
Oh ! what magic in a few simple words. “I 
will wait” hovered over his pillow and was 
sung by an angel in his sleeping vision. At 
an early hour the next morning he started to 
Charleston, one of our fairest Southern 
cities, to study law. 


CHAPTER III 


The home of William Walsingham was 
situated in the most pleasant portion of New 
Orleans. He was an able lawyer, and had risen 
from a penniless youth, by close application 
and hard study, to become one of the first 
and most talented men in his city. His 
wealth did not make him arrogant ; he never 
forgot his own trials and was always a friend 
to the poor youth trying to rise by his own 
profession. His wife, the first and only love 
of his boyhood, had been the beacon star of 
his hopes, and he ever attributed his success 
to her. Four children gladdened their 
home. The eldest, a wild, gay lad, the fond 
mother’s especial pride, promised to be all 
that her heart could wish. Nellie, the next 
in age, was away at school ; the two younger 
children, a boy and girl, were taught by Miss 
Hume. 

Edward Hume, a young graduate at law, 
had married a Miss Dean, of Alabama, while 
she was on a visit to some kindred in Vir- 
ginia. Shortly after his marriage he moved 
to his wife’s native State and settled in Mo- 
bile, and for several years practiced law in 
that city. Fortune favored him and he was 
soon enabled to move to New Orleans. He 
lived only a short distance from his old 


Darcy Pinckney 


25 


friend and former chum, Walsingham. Con- 
trary to his friend's advice, Mr. Hume em- 
barked in a large speculation and his whole 
fortune was swept away at a single stroke. 
The blow was too great and very soon he 
was attacked with brain fever. He sent for 
Mr. Walsingham and asked to see him pri- 
vately. 

“My friend, will you make a dying man a 
promise?" 

“I will." 

“While living in Mobile," began the rap- 
idly sinking man, “a lovely infant only a few 
years old was found one morning at my 
door. How she came there or from whence 
still remains a mystery. Many were the in- 
quiries made, but all to no avail. Mary 
wished to keep the little one. Our own baby 
girl had died some months before, and 
Mary’s heart went out with a mother’s love 
to the child left so strangely to our care. In 
that busy city no one cared about prying 
into his neighbor’s affairs. I do not sup- 
pose that a dozen persons paid any more 
attention to my advertisement than to re- 
mark, “A street foundling palmed off on 
some poor fellow." The child was a found- 
ling of no ordinary stamp. She was dainty 
and delicate, and dressed with a lavish rich- 
ness that told of wealth. The little waif 
seemed to be over two years old, yet she 
could only coo as younger children generally 


26 


Darcy Pinckney 


do. On unfastening the little one’s clothing 
my wife found a gold locket suspended by 
a small chain around her neck. Yonder sec- 
retary contains both chain and locket.” 

The locket was unclasped and the keen- 
eyed lawyer gazed long at the manly face 
there portrayed. 

‘T have seen him surely. Yet when and 
where ?” 

“The name engraved on the locket,” re- 
sumed the sick man, “as you see, is Clara. 
The initials on the clothes are N. M. No 
one except yourself, Mary, and myself knows 
that Clara Hume is a foundling as well as 
my adopted daughter.” 

“What are your views in regard to this? 
Shall I tell the young lady ?” 

“No, not for the world! that is, not yet. 
The intuition of a dying man seldom de- 
ceives him. I believe that her parentage will 
yet be traced. If so, here is a copy of the 
paper in which the advertisement was pub- 
lished. You will also find written instruc- 
tions in my desk. If her birth is other than 
respectable, if her parents prove unworthy, 
or her name is never known, this must not 
be told. She must remain as one of the 
family, the dear daughter that she has ever 
been. Walsingham, you will do as I have 
requested?” 

“I do most sacredly promise to do so. I, 
too, feel a deep interest in this gentle girl.” 


Darcy Pinckney 


27 


“Thank God ! I can die easier now. 
Mary I have provided for, and the children; 
yes, and Clara too.’" 

The physician entered the room. Mr. 
Walsingham received the package. Taking 
a tender leave of his friend, he promised to 
return soon. It was the last farewell, for 
ere the sun had set, Mr. Hume had been 
called home to God. 

In a few weeks it was ascertained that 
Mrs. Hume owned not even a dollar. A 
friend with whom he had intrusted his busi- 
ness affairs had proved false and betrayed 
the trust by robbing his dead friend’s widow 
of her last resource. 

Then it was that the true nobility of Mr. 
Walsingham’s nature came out. He pur- 
chased for Mrs. Hume a neat cottage in a 
pleasant part of the city, gave Robert a po- 
sition as clerk in a large dry goods store on 
Carondolet street, and Clara he engaged as 
governess for his younger children. He 
sent Edward to school. For several years 
Clara had taught Mr. Walsingham’s little 
ones. It was pleasure and duty combined, 
for her pupils were interesting children and 
were very fond of their young teacher. 
Then again, she was enabled to help her 
mother. Her pet idea was for Robert to 
study law. He had clerked two years, and 
she wished to see him rest. Then the doc- 
tors advised change of residence for his 


28 


Darcy Pinckney 


health, and his sister, though loth to part 
with him, urged him to do as they desired. 
We have seen that the advice was taken. 

Clara had been treated as though she 
were a member of Mr. Walsingham's family, 
and had always received invitations to all of 
the balls, parties, etc., partly in compliment 
to Mr. Walsingham, partly on account of 
her own merits. We have seen how she had 
been slighted by Mrs. Lee, the first slight 
that she had ever received, and Guy Wal- 
singham declared to his mother that some 
mistake had been made. The servant was 
recalled. 

“Where is Miss Hume’s invitation? Have 
you lost a card?” 

“No, sir; Miss May wrote one, but mis- 
tress didn’t send it.” 

“Then I will not accept any!” And the 
young man threw his card in the fire. 

“Please do not be offended, Guy. I do 
not feel at all hurt about it. If Mrs. Lee 
does not deem it right for May to associate 
with those who have their bread to earn, 
why we will not quarrel with her. I expected 
this. Mrs. Lee treated me so coolly when 
I was there last, all May’s fondness failed to 
hide it.” 

“I will resent the insult!” exclaimed the 
hasty, fiery youth. “You are the equal of 
any girl in the city, and superior to a great 
many of them. Mrs. Lee shall yet cringe. 


Darcy Pinckney 


29 


bow, fawn and flatter to gain entrance to the 
circle in which you shall some day move.” 

“Guy, my son !” 

“Do not say one word, mother. I love 
Clara, yet she would never let me tell her 
so. You shall not go, Clara,” and he held 
her hand fast. “I love her, mother, even as 
my father loved you. She would not let me 
tell her this, now she shall listen.” And he 
poured passionate words of love in the ear 
of the almost fainting girl. 

“Guy, Guy, you have always treated me 
with respect. Please let me retire now.” 

“Clara is right, my son.” 

“No, mother, say not so. And oh, 
mother, you must not look coldly on my 
love. I will renounce wealth, friends, all for 
her sake, even as my father did for you. Oh, 
mother, mother!” 

The fond mother could not resist the 
pleading tones of the dear voice, the impas- 
sioned earnestness of the handsome face, 
especially as this brought her back to her 
own youthful days. 

“Clara I” The girl started as though 
spellbound, without the power to move. At 
once happy and miserable — happy in the 
knowledge of the love of the manly youth 
beside her, wretched in knowing that pov- 
erty would forever separate them. “Clara,” 
and the voice was motherly in its kindness, 


30 


Darcy Pinckney 


as she drew the girl to her side, ‘Vill not 
you promise, dear, to make my boy happy?” 

‘'Clara, do you love me ? lam waiting for 
an answer. I am young and strong, and 
willing to battle with the world for your dear 
sake. Do you love me, dear one?” The 
blushing face for one moment raised to his 
own was reply enough to satisfy the most 
exacting lover. “Clara, will you permit 
me?” and he pressed a kiss upon her fair 
hand, then leading her to his mother he said, 
“Mother, darling, have you room enough in 
your heart for another daughter?” 

“Yes, my son! I have long loved her as 
such.” And she affectionately embraced 
the fair young girl. 

Slipping the hand of his betrothed 
through his arm he led her to the library, 
where his father was engaged in writing. 

“Father, will you bless my promised 
bride?” Mr. Walsingham was not at all 
surprised; he had expected this, and was 
well pleased with his son’s choice. Gently 
placing his hand on the girl’s head he said 
kindly, 

“I love you, my daughter, and may God 
forever bless you. May you always be a 
blessing to him who has won your young 
heart. And he must cherish you as his 
dearest gift.” 

Mr. Walsingham, with his strict love of in- 
tegrity would not communicate to his son 


Darcy Pinckney 


31 


the mystery of Clara’s birth. Matters were 
arranged to the satisfaction of all. The 
young people were to wait a couple of years. 
Clara was quite young and before then Guy 
would sow his wild oats; then again, per- 
chance the clue to the mystery enshrouding 
Clara’s babyhood might be unraveled before 
that time. 


CHAPTER IV 


About a month after the events related, 
two fair equestrians were cantering gaily 
along Main street. They had been taking a 
pleasure ride,, and were attended by neither 
escort nor groom. 

''Cannot you return with me, Julie?'' 

"Not to-night, Genie; papa is away and 
mamma would be all alone." 

"Then, dear, I must say good-by." And 
leaning over she kissed Miss Ashley's lip. 
"Papa will be at home before I get there; 
once more I bid you adieu!" And giving 
her fiery horse a tap of the riding-whip, she 
started in a gallop and was soon but of 
sight. 

On arriving at her home a note was 
handed her with the words, "From master." 
A shade of vexation crossed her face, for 
she knew that her father must have been de- 
tained or he would not have written. A few 
warm lines explained the cause of his pro- 
tracted absence. 

"Papa must be in trouble, he writes with 
so much brevity. Oh! I wish he had come. 
What shall I do to while away an hour or 
so? No letters to write; then I don't feel 
particularly in a writing mood. Ah ! Byron, 
my favorite, I will listen to your chat 


Darcy Pinckney 


33 


awhile/’ Reclining on a sofa she became in- 
terested in the “Lament of Tasso next she 
read “The Dream.” The book was closed 
and replaced on the center-table. Poor 
Byron,” she murmured. “If Miss Chaworth 
had only loved him, what a noble man he 
might have made.” Arising she whirled a 
music stool before the piano, and seating 
herself, began turning the leaves of a music- 
book. “Ah, I will play this, it is so sweet; 
then it has the charm of being old-fashioned. 
Julie Ashley plays it superbly.” She struck 
the keys and soon forgot her weary listless- 
ness to the sweet sounds brought forth by 
every movement of her fingers. After play- 
ing “Annie Laurie,” she began a dead 
march. She struck the keys only a few 
times before she hastily closed the instru- 
ment, saying to herself, “Were I supersti- 
tious I would deem it a token of bad luck.” 
Unlocking a handsome cabinet that occupied 
one corner of the room and taking out a se- 
cret drawer she examined its contents. A 
faded rosebud, a note or two, a long curl of 
glittering golden-hued hair, and a richly 
chased locket of gold were revealed. Un- 
clasping the latter her gaze rested upon two 
faces. One could easily be recognized as 
Mr. Hardy’s. The other was the fair face 
of a woman, the features regular and of Gre- 
cian cast, the hair of a golden brown, hang- 
3 


34 


Darcy Pinckney 


ing in curls around the snowy throat; the 
eyes of a soft brown. It was a delicate style 
of beauty and so Eugenia thought. ''Manr- 
ma, mamma, how lovely you must have 
been ! Papa fancies that I resemble you, but 
I don’t think that I do. I am not like him 
either. Yet Ernest is his very image.” 
Stepping in front of the tall mirror she 
closely examined her own face, and com- 
pared hers with those in the locket. A 
pleased look crept over the girl’s face. “I 
do look like mamma, only I am very dark. 
I am so glad that I have at last found a re- 
semblance between my angel mother and 
her earthly child.” The closing of a door 
startled her, and turning it was to meet the 
outstretched arms of Mr. Hartly. 

‘‘Oh, I’m so glad that you have come. I 
received your note and quarreled with its 
brevity, partly because it told me that you 
would not come. To banish moodiness I 
turned to the sweet face of my mother. It 
never fails to comfort me. Have you sup- 
ped, papa?” 

“Yes, my dear, an hour ago. Have you 
waited all this time for me?” 

“Not exactly. I drank a cup of tea but 
did not want a single morsel to eat. I have 
felt too restless for anything.” 

“Are you sick, Genie?” 

“Oh, no, papa, only troubled a little about 
something,” laughingly, “that really I know 


Darcy Pinckney 


35 


nothing about. It will wear off soon. And 
now, papa dear, please tell me about my 
childhood. Sometimes I feel as though I 
had lived in Italy when I was small. Were 
we ever there, papa?’^ 

“No, my child. What has put such 
thoughts into your head? Mrs. Theresa 
has, I presume, been telling you of her so- 
journ in that bright land.” 

“Yes, papa, she used to talk often to me 
about both Italy and Spain. This, perchance, 
is why I dream of Italy so much. And, fa- 
ther dear, there is the picture that is ever 
in my mind’s eye. A dark-haired lady who 
would sing sweet songs and dance on the 
green sward under the beautiful blue of the 
Italian skies. This has been a dream that 
has ever haunted me, either awake or 
asleep. Was there no dark-haired, starry- 
eyed lady who looked and dressed as a prin- 
cess that visited at our home when I was a 
child?” 

“No, Eugenia, it is only a pleasant phan- 
tasy of your brain, or a faint remembrance 
of some painting that you have seen. I have 
news that will dispel all such fanciful va- 
garies and perpetually banish the bright- 
lined picture. Wilcoxen has just returned 
from Europe. He met Ernest, and is the 
bearer of letters and packages from the boy. 
Here is your letter. The young scapegrace 


36 


Darcy Pinckney 


has sent me only a note ; yourself a volume, 
judging by the bulk of the epistle.” 

Opening one of her letters the girl 
eagerly began to scan its pages. What 
brings the hue of death over her fine face? 
Why does she clasp the small hands until 
the dainty nails are almost imbedded in the 
soft flesh? While the pearly teeth are 
firmly closed upon the beautiful underlip to 
keep back the cry of mental anguish. 

Mr. Hartly was busy examining the con- 
tents of his package and failed to notice the 
look of despair that Eugenia cast upon him. 

“Look here, my dear. Is not this a 
splendid present?” holding up a handsomely 
bound copy of poems. “Recently published, 
too.” 

“Yes, father, it is very nice!” A strange 
hoarseness marred the clearness of her 
voice. 

“What is the matter, my child?” 

“Nothing, papa, only a slight giddiness. 
You know I am subject to it at times.” 

Mr. Hartly stepped to a sideboard and 
handed her a glass of ice water. 

“Thanks, papa,” as she eagerly quaffed its 
contents. 

“You look ill, my child.” 

“Oh no, papa, only a little nervous. I will 
retire to my room, and to-morrow examine 
the gifts that Ernest has so kindly sent. You 
will excuse me, father dear.” And the girl 


Darcy Pinckney 


37 


threw her arms about his neck, kissing him 
again and again. “I am a good daughter, 
have ever been, have I not?” 

“Yes, my pet,” as he fondly smoothed the 
jetty hair, “you have ever been a blessing 
to me.” 

“That assurance does and will ever sat- 
isfy me. Good-night, papa.” And quickly 
withdrawing she sought her own apartment 
— not to sleep, not to rest. Reopening the 
letter she perused its contents. The post- 
mark was a foreign one. Valence, France. 

Eugenia was stupefied, bewildered. I have 
said that she was a girl of strong mind. 
Arousing herself from her stupor, she tore 
open a note that had for the moment es- 
caped her eye. The words were few, and to 
the point ; it ran thus : 

“Forgive me for what I do, it is done for 
the best. The terrible secret of your family 
will perish; it has caused suffering enough. 
The one so near, so dear to you must be 
saved, and at any cost. Oh, my heart bleeds 
when I think of this, yet I know that it is for 
the best.” 

She finished reading the note, then bent 
her throbbing temples to the marble slab 
before her to cool the fever that seemed to 
parch her very eyeballs. 

“What must I do? Ah, my forebodings 
were real, the evil has come and I am not 
prepared to meet it. This will be known. 


38 


Darcy Pinckney 


and I the worshiped Miss Hartly will be 
scorned, jeered at, and passed by unnoticed, 
even though — ” she murmured. ^^And yet 
no, that cannot be.” Reading the letter a 
second time, she said, “The sentiments here 
breathed are pure and beautiful. I will be 
true to myself, though it kills me. My duty 
is to follow the dictates of my conscience, 
not the pleadings of my heart. The first 
leads me away, the latter bids me linger 
here ; and oh ! how the poor body wishes to 
follow the heart’s pleadings. Yet oh! how 
can I leave papa — and Ernest?” A wail of 
anguish pierced the poor stricken heart. “O 
mamma dear, I wish that I were with you 
in your grave! Mamma, mamma! Yet I 
must not give way to despair. Surely He to 
whom I have been taught to kneel in rever- 
ence will not in this my hour of trial forsake 
me!” Throwing herself upon her knees by 
the bedside, burying her face in the coverlet, 
she prayed with all the strength of her deep, 
earnest nature; prayed for strength to go 
through the ordeal of separation, for she 
deemed it her duty to go away. 

Hastily refolding the letter, she proceeded 
to pack into as small a compass as possible 
a few articles of clothing, the most substan- 
tial that she had. Her jewelry she placed 
together in a small rosewood cabinet that 
stood on the bureau. Only two pieces did 
she keep — her last birthday gift, a miniature 


Darcy Pinckney 


39 


of Mr. Hartly; also a plain gold ring that 
Ernest had sent her years before. The 
other letters she had not read she placed 
unopened in her pocket. She rang the bell 
and in a few moments Mrs. Theresa ap- 
peared. 

“What does my birdie want? Some story 
of Italy, or perchance it is some Spanish 
legend, a story of fair dames and gallant cav- 
aliers that my lady wishes her old nurse to 
relate.” 

“Oh! no; it is none of that I wish to 
hear. Tell me of my childhood, of the dark- 
haired lady who used to sing me those lovely 
songs.” Leaning forward she grasped the 
nurse's arm and said eagerly, excitedly, 
“Theresa, tell me if — ” Her voice died 
away in a hoarse whisper, yet the old nurse 
heard only too well the low, whispered 
words. She started as though shocked by a 
galvanic battery, as she replied hastily, 

“No, no! as God hears me, no!” then 
stood aghast, trembling. Twice she tried to 
speak again, but failed to summon a word. 
Eugenia kindly took her hand and led her to a 
seat. 

“Theresa, I know all. Listen to this,” as 
she read the note aloud to the old woman. 
“I am not angry,” said the girl, “only 
grieved, almost heart-broken. I am waiting 
patiently for you to give me the full particu- 


40 


Darcy Pinckney 


lars of my early life and to learn the dread 
secret of my family.” 

With tears of penitence Theresa replied 
that she had sworn not to betray the secret, 
urging as a plea, “It would only cause you 
unhappiness, doubtless misery.” Then she 
detailed a few instances of the young lady’s 
childhood, but would give no information 
concerning the writer of the foreign letter, 
and would not open her lips on the subject 
of the family secret. Eugenia had gleaned 
enough to satisfy herself as to how to act. 
Seating herself beside her desk she rapidly 
penned two notes and made the nurse sign 
her name to both, also the date and by 
whose bidding it was done. When finished 
she placed one in the foreign letter the other 
in her pocket, then bade the old woman to 
retire, as she said she wished to write several 
letters. 

Going down-stairs she ordered the coach- 
man to get the carriage in readiness, saying 
she felt like taking a drive, the night was so 
pleasant. The man bowed and left the 
room. 

Eugenia returned to her room and open- 
ing her desk began to write. Sheet after 
sheet was covered by her nimble fingers. 
The letter from Valence was copied, also the 
note. These and a letter written by herself 
were enveloped and addressed and placed 
on the bureau. 


CHAPTER V 


On the night of a group of fashion- 

ably dressed young men were standing 
around a table in a brilliantly lit billiard 
saloon in the city of Charleston. The play- 
ers grew more eager and excited and the 
crowd around them became more dense. 
One of the principal players, a youth of 
about nineteen, tossed the balls with as 
much carefulness as though his life de- 
pended upon his success. His, opponent 
played with the utmost indifference, as 
though it made but little difference to him 
whether he lost or won. Royal Clifford, for 
such was the young man’s name who played 
with so much sang froid, had now a vast pile 
of gold rapidly accumulating before him. 

“If red wins, then again the goddess of 
luck is mine,” he exclaimed. 

The balls are sent spinning across the 
table. For a second all is silence, then a 
shout, “Red wins!” 

“Yes, Roy has again pocketed the ball!” 

“Yes, and pocketed the money too,” 
laughed a third, whilst Clifford, a smile of 
triumph resting on his open, handsome face, 
swept the gold into his hand. 

“I am ruined, utterly and forever ruined !” 
escaped from the pale lips of the delicate- 


42 


Darcy Pinckney 


looking youth who had played with so much 
care and precision. 

Looking up, Clifford examined attentively 
the boy’s face. The look of misery on the 
clear, youthful face shocked him ; for al- 
though wild and dissipated, Clifford had a 
generous heart. With an impulsive gesture, 
he sprang to the youth’s side and placed the 
gold before him. 

“Take it, I do not need it. And oh ! take 
my advice, beware of this mode of making 
money. I never expect to visit this place 
again.” 

“I will act upon your advice, and here sol- 
emnly swear never to enter such a place 
again!” Quickly throwing his arms around 
the young man’s neck he sobbed, “Oh! sir, 
you have saved me from sin and destruction ; 
saved a poor widowed mother’s heart from 
much grief and sorrow. God bless you!” 
and brushing the glittering heap into his 
pocket, the lad rushed from the room. 

A hand rested lightly on Clifford’s arm. 
“Roy, you have acted nobly. Such a deed 
is worthy to be registered in heaven, and I 
trust that you will ever keep your self-made 
prornise, to bid adieu to such haunts as this.” 
Then gently drawing Clifford’s hand 
through his arm, the young men passed from 
the room. It was a deed of mercy that had 
carried Robert Hume there, to try as far as 


Darcy Pinckney 


43 


possible to shield his friend from sin and 
shame. 

A month’s time had changed our young 
friend much. Always steady, he had become 
even more so. An air of sedateness had set- 
tled on his grave young face, from which 
much of the freshness had been lost. His 
constitution was very delicate, the slightest 
exertion would cause the hectic flush to 
stain his pale face ; while the hacking cough 
proclaimed more plainly than words that the 
deadly tendrils of consumption had twined 
themselves through the fibres of his exist- 
ence. He had never feared the dread dis- 
ease until now, although he had long known 
and kept to himself the appalling truth that 
some day he would become its victim. Now, 
with everything to live for, the picture of 
life painted in its most glorious colors, 
spread so temptingly before him, it seemed 
so hard to die. He would try to wear it 
away, and with renewed energy he bent to 
his allotted task. Poor youth, instead of 
strengthening, it only enfeebled him the 
more. Consulting a physician, he was ad- 
vised to take rest, and once in a while exer- 
cise on horseback. 

‘‘Doctor, do you think that I will ever be 
well and strong again?” 

“My young friend,” the old man answered 
gravely, “we must always hope for the best. 
Yet your health is very feeble.” Adding as 


44 


Darcy Pinckney 


he handed him a small package, “Here are 
some drops to ease that cough. You will 
find directions with them.” After a warm 
pressure of the hand, the doctor departed. 

Staying at Mr. Clifford’s, under whom he 
was reading law, Robert Hume had every 
luxury that wealth could command. His 
father had been one of Mr. Clifford’s most 
intimate friends, and had rendered the latter 
a service that had never been forgotten, and 
that had bound them together in the closest 
ties of friendship. To pay the debt of grati- 
tude owing to the dead, Mr. Clifford was 
taking our friend through an entire course 
of law. 

Robert had been unusually restless and had 
been walking up King street. Meeting an 
acquaintance, Roy Clifford’s name was cas- 
ually mentioned. 

“Yes, I met Clifford with Bagby, Ford, 
and others going to Brown’s saloon.” 

Retracing his steps, Robert found his 
friend at the most noted hell in the city. We 
have described what there occurred, and left 
the young men together on their way home. 

“Does my mother know of this?” said 
Royal, breaking the silence. 

“I do not think that she does. I never 
knew that you were a frequenter of such 
places until to-night, and could scarcely 
credit my own eyesight,” the young man an- 
swered sadly. 


Darcy Pinckney 


45 


‘‘Was it to search for me? Was it to be- 
come my mentor, my tutor, that you forgot 
your usual prudence and came out in this 
raw night?” fiercely broke forth the impet- 
uous youth. 

“No,” was the calm reply, “it was for none 
of these that I sought you. You wrong me. 
It was to save you from sin, to shield your 
gentle mother from suffering, to keep the 
gray hairs of your father from going down in 
sorrow to the grave. It was for these that 
I — ” A violent fit of coughing checked his 
utterance, and before the paroxysm was 
over he reeled from exhaustion. 

In a second Clifford’s arm was about his 
waist, and with the warm impetuosity usual 
to one of his temperament poured forth 
words of repentance. 

“Forgive me, Robert; forgive me! I am 
a brute, and will never forgive myself,” with 
brotherly fondness pressing the attenuated 
form. 

“Don’t be troubled, Roy. Only keep your 
vow.” Another fit of coughing, more se- 
vere than the former, followed his words. 
“Oh! my God, have mercy!” the blood in a 
crimson tide flowed from the mouth and nos- 
trils, a dimness came over his vision, a sick- 
ening faintness seized him. Clifford caught 
him only in time to prevent his falling to the 
pavement. On recovering the young man 
found himself in a cab and on his way home. 


46 


Darcy Pinckney 


The next morning he was quite weak, yet 
determined to start home. Royal promised 
to accompany him, saying he had better 
wait a few days, he would then feel more able 
to travel. With a languid air the student 
replied, 

‘‘No, I will never be any better. I grow 
weaker every day, yet I will wait, and in two 
days we will go to my home. I will never 
leave it again.” 

Gazing at him as he lay upon the sofa, one 
could scarce refrain from weeping at the 
thought that the dark angel of death would 
soon claim him as its victim. Sad was it to 
note the settled agony that rested on the 
youthful face, to know that his span of life 
was almost run, to see the sun of his exist- 
ence drawing quickly, more surely to its 
close. 

“Mrs. Clifford, will you write a note to my 
mother? Tell her of my intended return, of 
my sickness. Prepare her for the worst. 
This change would kill her. Or no,” he 
added, “write to Clara, to my sister. She is 
as firm as she is gentle, and will be the best 
one to break this to my poor mother, my 
mother whom I shall soon see.” 

Gently replying that she would do as he 
requested, Mrs. Clifford passed from the 
room. 

For upwards of an hour Robert remained 
in the same position. Once a deep groan es- 


Darcy Pinckney 


47 


caped him. In a moment Roy was at his 
side. 

“Are you in pain, dear Robert?” 

“Not bodily, but mentally. Oh! Roy, you 
know not the yearning eagerness with 
which this poor frame clings to life. Yet I 
know that I am doomed. The prisoner never 
marched to execution with a more sure con- 
viction of the dread fate awaiting him than I 
at this moment am of mine. This love of 
life, of this beautiful earth is so strong within 
me that days fly by as minutes, hours as sec- 
onds. It is so dreadful to think of the cold 
dark grave, to know that ere many weeks 
worms will hold their dread carnival over 
my body. And I had thought that my des- 
tiny would be, some day, so brilliant that, by 
toil and study, I would soon be able to pl^ce 
my loved ones above want; that she, the 
good and beautiful, would share with me the 
reward of my toil, yet I must leave all, all for 
the cold embrace of death. Roy, Roy! the 
death angehs pinions already fan my brow,” 
and convulsively he clasped Clifford’s hand. 

Thrice had the young man essayed to 
speak, yet remained spellbound as he listened 
to the mournful music of the almost dying 
man’s voice. 

“Be calm, dear friend,” he whispered. “I 
will start with you for your home to-mor- 
row,” turning hastily aside to conceal the 
tears that his manhood considered it no dis- 


48 


Darcy Pinckney 


grace to shed. “Here is a cool draught 
which father prepared before he left.” 
Placing the glass, to the lips of his friend it 
was drained to the very dregs. 

“Thanks, Roy ! perchance I may woo hap- 
piness to visit me in my dreams.” Turning 
his face to the wall, shading his eyes with 
his thin, blue-veined hand, he rested. Then 
the powerful opiate took effect and he fell 
into a deep sleep. 


CHAPTER VI 


' It was the third of May. May, more fresh 
and fair from the contrast to the past two 
months. March, blustering, windy March, 
had as usual verified the old adage. Nearly 
the whole month had been tempestuous. 
Then came April with her fitful gleams of 
sunshine, her many shadows. Now maiden 
May, in all her virgin purity, had been ush- 
ered in by birds and flowers. The music of 
the former filled the air, the perfume of the 
latter clothed the breeze with a sweet fra- 
grance delicious to feel, delightful to think 
of. Everything seemed gay and happy, and 
even the little captives, the sweet-voiced 
canaries, trilled forth more joyous notes than 
was their wont, as though in very praise to 
God, who being more merciful to them than 
man, had wafted the scented breeze through 
the gilded bars of their prison homes. Poor 
little lute-voiced songsters, many a time and 
oft, when a child, in my fair home in yonder 
city by the sea have I gazed at your dainty 
little bodies while admiring the yellow feath- 
ers rich with their glossy hue; or, listening 
to the silvery songs coming in languid notes 
from your tiny throats, have I wished that I 
could open the doors of your cages and set 
4 


50 


Darcy Pinckney 


you free. Ah! it was not to be. Canaries 
from their far-off clime will be captured and 
caged, bought and sold, until the ‘‘tangent 
of time meets with the cycle of eternity.” 

Once I found a dead canary in its cage, 
whilst its mate poured forth such notes of sor- 
row that my childish heart was touched. 
Holding the delicate body in my hand, 
smoothing gently the pretty plumage that 
would never be ruffled more by passing 
breeze, I wept tears of sorrow for both poor 
innocents. This was, to me, a giant sorrow 
then. 

The evening was such a lovely one that 
even the most prosy and practical would 
have thought of bird-music, songs without 
words; would have dreamed of flowers, fair 
city flowers dying in their pent-up homes; 
of flowers, rich and royal, in some Eastern 
land drooping, perchance dying, beneath 
their weight of rare perfume or wealth of 
wondrous beauty. 

It was on the evening of which we write, 
the third of May, that a crowd of young men 
were seen, some seated, others standing, on 
the balcony in front of the St. Charles Hotel. 
Many of them were lazily smoking their per- 
fumed cigarettes. These were mostly the 
warm-blooded creoles, who composed the 
wealthiest youth of the city. This could 
easily be discovered by their slender, grace- 
ful figures, lithe movements, dark hand- 


Darcy Pinckney 


51 


some faces, and the rapid yet easy gesticula- 
tions used by them while conversing. Yet it 
ds none of these who claim our attention. 

See yonder group of Americans, all of 
them southerners, and bent upon their own 
amusement, quite evident by the way they 
are quizzing a countryman, a long, gawky 
specimen of humanity, whose lank limbs 
were set off by pantaloons of striped jeans, 
whilst his body was clothed in a jacket of 
brown material ornamented with bright 
brass buttons, left open at the neck for the 
ostensible purpose of giving to view the 
flaming colored calico shirt and fancy neck- 
tie which were evidently the pride of the 
folks ‘ffu home.” A high top beaver sur- 
mounted the sandy locks of his huge head, 
the shining gloss of the beaver seeming to 
scorn the fiery shock on which it rested. The 
shoes were of red russet tied with thongs of 
buckskin. Here we have the complete outfit 
of a Massachusetts specimen of country 
come to town. He appeared all smiles, if 
the broad grin on his face could be termed 
such, and replied in a rough voice, with the 
utmost good humor, to the remarks of the 
youngsters by whom he was surrounded. 
His face, which dame Nature had treated 
with more generosity than his form, was 
round, rosy and jolly, the brown eyes danc- 
ing with fun. The other features of the face 
were good. 


52 


Darcy Pinckney 


‘‘Waal, this beats Bosting all holler,” he 
remarked with the usual nasal twang, as he 
replied to Guy Walsingham, who formed 
one of the group. “Daddy carried me to 
Bosting,” he continued. “I was a little chap 
then. I remember T saw lots of fine houses 
and purty women. But la ! there go some !” 
as several ladies cantered gaily past. “That 
one with the blue cap and brown curls. She’s 
purty as a picter; and Sally Ann, that’s my 
ole woman you know, has got a picter just 
like her, only it’s the face of a leetle gal. 
Must be some kin, I reckon, as it come from 
here, and the child lived here. Sally Ann 
was its nurse, you know. When she come 
back home we was married, had a big wed- 
din’. Do you ever have weddin’s down here ? 
Now do tell?” he inquired, looking so laugh- 
ably innocent that the young men could con- 
trol their laughter no longer, and their ring- 
ing merriment soon attracted a still larger 
circle about them. 

Mr. Jonas Brown, for that was the cogno- 
men in which our countryman delighted, 
much to the astonishment of the southern 
loungers, had asked only a few questions, 
thereby proving that the North could boast 
of one live Yankee who was endowed with 
less curiosity than the rest of her sons. 
Nothing had either been done or said to 
wound the man’s feelings. The most pre- 
dominant characteristic of the southern 


Darcy Pinckney 


53 


youth is his love for fun and mischief, yet 
they are also kindhearted, chivalrous, and 
brave, ever ready to give a joke, equally as 
ready to take one. Yet, warm southern 
blood coursing through southern veins oft- 
times causes the youth of the Sunny South 
to become rash and imprudent. 

Our youngsters enjoyed the rough pleas- 
antry of Mr. Brown very much, there was 
such a ludicrous yet at the same time jolly 
look about him, which only delighted them 
the more, as many of them being fresh from 
college were totally unused to such a sight. 
One of them, a mere fop, with more money 
than brains, by name Loyd, asked, imitating 
the nasal twang, 

‘‘Wher’d you buy your hat?’’ 

“Raaly, mister, don’t you know? Waal, I 
got it at a big house where they sell hats, in 
a little place they call Mobile.” 

“And is this what you call broadcloth away 
down tu home?” still persisted Loyd, much 
to the amusement of the bystanders, who 
were certain from the sly twinkle of Mr. 
Brown’s eyes that Loyd would get the 
worst of it. 

“Waal, yes, mister, do come down, and 
you shall have a sute of this brod — What 
d’ye call it? Oh, yes, bro’dcloth, as mine 
tickles your fancy so much. If you are scarce 
for buttons, the brass. on your face will make 
stout ones, and any quantity of ’em.” 


54 


Darcy Pinckney 


Not willing to listen to the jokes of his 
companions, or to hear their laughter, which 
was now uncontrollable, the fop beat a hasty 
retreat, muttering vows of revenge against 
“my country gent.” 

The same night, a bright moonlit one, we 
again meet our somewhat verdant friend. 
Not at the St. Charles, however, but in a sa- 
loon fronting on Canal street we find him 
seated at a table and about to begin the 
game of rouge-et-noir, his opponent a young 
man whose hat was slouched over his green- 
spectacled eyes. Just then a voice whis- 
pered, 

“This is no place for an honest man. Take 
my advice and do not play. Yonder man is a 
sharper and will fleece you of your last cent.” 

Mr. Brown turned only in time to get a 
glimpse of the retreating figure of Guy Wal- 
singham. 

“Are you ready, mister?” 

The voice, and particularly the stress upon 
the last word, 'Struck our country friend as 
being familiar. The thought of a second de- 
cided him, the next he reached across the 
table and deliberately raised the hat from 
the young man’s head, then with the utmost 
sang froid proceeded to take the spectacles 
from his nose. 

“Whew!” and a prolonged whistle. “So 
you’re the feller that’s arter my tin. And me 
gwine to give you a suit of bro’dcloth too, 


Darcy Pinckney 


55 


free of charge, and yourself to furnish brass 
for the buttons !” Encountering the gaze of 
Walsingham his tone became more stern. 
“Fve a deuced good mind to give you a 
drubbing; but no, ’twould be too good for 
you. Don’t speak to me while I am in the 
city, or I’ll give you one though that you 
won’t get over soon.” Turning, he thanked 
Walsingham for his timely caution, and to- 
gether they left the room. 

Parting with his rustic friend, Guy pro- 
ceeded up the street, and meeting some of 
his friends, was requested to join them, as 
they were then on their way to a restaurant 
where one of the number was to stand treat. 
Accepting the invitation, they went to De- 
maret’s, then the most fashionable building 
of the kind in the city. Entering the princi- 
pal saloon they called for champagne and 
oysters, then began to discuss the events of 
the day. Guy in his graphic manner de- 
scribed the scene enacted a few moments be- 
fore at the rouge-et-noir table. 

“Eoyd deserved it, richly deserved being 
unmasked,” replied one. 

'‘Yes,” added another, “I am heartily glad 
of it.” 

“Where went Brown?” asked Phil Walker, 
the only dark, stern-looking man among them. 

“I parted with him before I met you. He 
intended returning to the St. Charles.” 

More champagne was called for, and bot- 


56 


Darcy Pinckney 


tie after bottle was emptied, the tongues of 
the guests beginning to run glib and free. 
Toasts were given and healths drank. Mid- 
night found them still carousing, Walker 
and Walsingham the most sober ones of the 
group. They disliked each other and several 
taunts had already passed between them. 
Knowing Guy’s love for Miss Hume, Walker 
did what no sober man, calling himself a gen- 
tleman, would have done, what he certainly 
would have scorned doing had he been sober. 
Filling his glass to the brim he raised it to 
his lips with the words, 

“To the health of Miss Clara Hume, the 
most liberal of governesses. May she never 
be less!” 

Scarcely had the words been uttered or 
the glass taken from his lips before a stun- 
ning blow in the face sent him reeling to 
the floor. Rash and hasty though he was, 
yet Guy had too much honor to strike a pros- 
trate man. With the words, “an apology or 
a challenge,” he left the room. 

“Guy Walsingham, dearly shall you pay 
for this,” muttered Walker as he wiped the 
blood and bits of broken glass from his face. 
Then arousing his drunken companions 
from their stupor they were soon reeling to 
their respective homes, he who had become 
the demon of the group breathing oaths of 
vengeance against the devoted Walsingham. 

“And yet,” he murmured, “he did only as 


Darcy Pinckney 


57 


in his place I would have done. I cannot 
blame him. Once, before my good angel left 
me, I too could have admired a noble deed, 
and would have scorned doing a base one. 
And now! what am I now? Aye! he shall 
see that I am no coward. The blow must be 
blotted out in his blood or mine. To-mor- 
row I will fight him fairly. God save the 
soul of him who falls! Ah! Inez, Inez! if 
you had been true to me, sin would never 
have stained my soul ; but I, stern Phil 
Walker, must not grow weak and womanish 
now.’’ 

The good in this man’s nature had not all 
been turned to evil. He had sinned much, 
yet he had been sinned against, and had suf- 
fered. In a little while we will meet him 
again, then to learn whether or no the evil 
spirit had been banished to make room for 
the gentle one of goodness that so long had 
been a stranger to the dark-browed man. 


CHAPTER VII 


We left Mr. Hartly examining the pres- 
ents sent to him by his son. This man we 
will now describe. He was of medium 
height, finely formed, easy and unrestrained 
in manner, of a graceful yet dignified deport- 
ment, one with whom the most fastidious 
could find no fault — he had been proclaimed 
by all who knew him to be a gentleman. 
True nobility was stamped upon his brow, 
the face a grand, noble-looking one, at once 
fearless, frank and free. The eyes, shaded 
by long dark lashes and heavily arched 
brows, formed the chief beauty of the face; 
eyes of dark clear gray, now subdued and 
gentle in expression, now flashing and 
sparkling, now deep and tender, then again 
calm and searching. His voice was rich and 
musical. Gifted with talents of the highest 
order, he was well fitted to serve his country 
in any capacity, though he had wished no 
public office. Having traveled much in his 
youth, also several years after the death of 
his accomplished wife, he had returned from 
a foreign land, heartsick and weary, to the 
quiet of his home, and to find the little Eu- 
genia, whom he had left a wee bairn, now a 
child of four or five years of age — a dark, 
wilful, pretty child, who was perfectly de- 


Darcy Pinckney 


59 


lighted to see papa. The gentleman noticed 
that her little ladyship, whom he had left fair 
as a lily, had become sun-browned. The old 
cook explained, much to her master’s amuse- 
ment, in her own terse way, that the nurse 
would let little miss have her own way, and 
that her head was seldom ever covered by 
either hat or bonnet. 

After a few weeks Mr. Hartly gave him- 
self up entirely to his books. His fondness 
for reading almost equaled the love that he 
felt for his only daughter, and he did not 
again, for many years, revisit the fashionable 
world. It was only on the “coming out” of 
Eugenia that he had gladly, proudly intro- 
duced his daughter into the society which 
was only too well pleased to receive them 
both. Eugenia, by her wondrous beauty and 
the deep intellect of her mind, had fasci- 
nated all beholders, and at once was 
pronounced belle par excellence of the best 
society in Orleans. His son Ernest, only a 
few years senior to the little girl, had been 
sent to college, and when quite young had 
passed his examinations with the highest 
honor and returned home to spend a week 
in the company of his father and sweet 
young sister, and with his former tutor sailed 
for Europe. After staying abroad several 
years he returned to America a traveled and 
accomplished gentleman. So manly and 
splendid had he grown, that even his own 


60 


Darcy Pinckney 


father did not know him, and his sister had 
failed to recognize him. After a visit of a few 
days he had bidden good-by to both father and 
sister and sailed for Europe. 

After having waited for some time for the 
appearance of Eugenia, who had always been 
an early riser, Mr. Hartly sent to her room. 
The servant returned, saying that Miss 
Genie was not there, that the bed had not 
been touched. Becoming alarmed, Mr. 
Hartly sought her room, hoping to find some 
clue to her absence. Not even a note did he 
find. Returning to the drawing-room the 
coachman was summoned. The man stated 
that by his young lady’s own orders he had 
driven, the night before, to Ea Fayette 
Square, adding, “Then my young mistress 
got out and entering a cab was driven away.” 

“Did she send no message?” 

“No, sir; Miss Genie wrote a note by the 
light of the carriage lamp. She seemed 
troubled, feared you would not be able to 
read it. I gave it to Mrs. Theresa to hand 
to you, sir. I suppose she has forgotten it, 
although she did give a wonderful stare 
when I told her about Miss Eugenia’s drive.” 

Not wishing his servant to witness the 
anxiety to which he had become a prey, Mr. 
Hartly bade him retire. Much greater was 
his alarm when a servant came in to say that 
Mrs. Theresa was also gone. 

Almost distracted, Mr. Hartly, taking his 


Darcy Pinckney 


61 


hat, left the house. He was well aware that 
it was no idle masquerade of Eugenia’s. 
She was too dignified, too haughty for that. 
Could she have eloped? The question came 
with startling earnestness. Oh ! no, she had 
never kept a secret from him, and among all 
of her admirers there was not one whom 
she, the proud, the queenly girl, would have 
honored with her love. Thought after 
thought crowded rapidly through his mind, 
each to be banished as more absurd than the 
first. 

He was hastening to Mrs. Lee’s, knowing 
that Miss Lee was an intimate friend of his 
daughter’s, when a sudden thought flashed 
across his mind. The foreign letter. He 
must have given it to Eugenia. “What 
could have been in that letter to have an- 
noyed her, and from whom?” he mentally 
queried. Yes, that letter must be the cause 
of her absence. He would return and search 
for it. Retracing his steps he entered her 
apartment. Cabinet after cabinet was 
opened, drawer after drawer unlocked, the 
contents of her work-box examined, every 
paper in her desk scanned, yet neither could 
letter or note be found. What was he to do ? 
The foreign postmark was forgotten. Should 
he write to Ernest? No, he was constantly 
on the move, the letter would fail to reach 
him; he would wait. One hope alone sus- 
tained him, he knew that his daughter was 


62 


Darcy Pinckney 


of a firm, decided mind, that she would never 
swerve from the right path, would do that 
alone which was right. But what could have 
caused the self-banishment of his fastidious 
child, from a father who worshiped her, from 
a home of wealth and elegance? The more 
he sought to solve the mystery, the more 
deeply he became perplexed. 

Eugenia reached France after a short and 
easy voyage, and proceeded to Valence. 
There she made inquiries about the writer of 
the foreign letter. Yes, they remembered 
the name, the person had been very sick, had 
recovered though and gone away. Perhaps 
he could learn whither. Did the made- 
moiselle wish to know ? if so, he would make 
inquiries. Or, with the accustomed polite- 
ness of the French, should he conduct her to 
the hotel where the person had boarded? 
With many thanks for his kindness, she pro- 
ceeded to the hotel. The mistress made her 
appearance and answered kindly the inquir- 
ies. Yes, such a person had been there, but 
had gone away ; had seemed greatly agitated 
before going, so much so that a severe spell 
of illness was the result. 

“What route do you think he took?” 

“I am certain, mam’selle, that England 
was the destination. So I gathered from his 
words addressed to the young man who was 
wounded here.” 


Darcy Pinckney 


63 


Eugenia determined to leave Valence at 
once; she would also go to England. Mr. 
Hartly would come to France to seek her — 
she had not thought of this. How could 
she ever meet him? “Oh, no,” she said “not 
until the mystery is cleared, then I will re- 
turn to show that I am not all ungrateful, 
as he must deem me.” As the young girl 
thought of her father’s noble generosity, of 
his kindness and indulgence, then of her 
lonely situation without friends or money, in 
a strange land, away from the kind parent 
and loved home, she could not refrain from 
weeping. She soon made arrangements to 
enter Mr. Linton’s family as governess. 
That gentleman and his wife and two little 
daughters were then ready to sail for Eng- 
land. The voyage was a pleasant one, made 
more so by the society of pleasant persons. 
The Lintons were wealthy and accomplished, 
teacher. The children also became very fond 
of her, and were not at all troublesome, so 
her task was anything but irksome. The 
handsome, refined American girl was ad- 
mired by all on board, and she made many 
friends among the passengers, the most of 
whom were English and were “homeward 
bound.” 

The Lintons judged rightly that their 
teacher had once filled a high station in so- 
ciety. By their deference and respect they 
sought to lighten her sorrow, for a look of 
sadness often rested on the exquisite face. 


64 


Darcy Pinckney 


After their arrival in England we find 
them domiciled under the hospitable roof of 
the elder Mr. Linton. 

Eugenia had changed her name for the 
fanciful one of Nina Mendoza. Oh! how 
the haughty girl hated to part with the name 
of which she had ever been so proud. She 
had been compelled, by stern necessity, to 
leave her girl-life behind her, and would 
leave her name as well. 

She had been in England several weeks, 
but had received no tidings concerning the 
writer of the foreign letter, and her heart 
grew weary with disappointment. She had 
become pale and languid ; sorrow was 
stamped upon her sweet face. Yet she had 
lost none of her graceful hauteur and was so 
gentle and winning that she was beloved and 
admired by all. 

Mrs. Linton thought that exercise on 
horseback might prove beneficial to Nina’s 
health, so early one morning the governess, 
accompanied by Mrs. Linton and a youthful 
sister-in-law of the latter lady, started for a 
pleasure ride across the beautiful country, 
the most of it woodland, where they resided. 
Mrs. Linton and her sister were riding fine 
American horses that had been sent as a 
present to Mr. Linton the previous year. 
Nina was mounted upon her choice, a superb 
black charger of pure English breed. Very 
lovely she looked in her long habit of black. 


Darcy Pinckney 


65 


A cap of black velvet, surmounted in front 
by a rich plume, rested gracefully on her 
head. They had galloped about a mile when 
they concluded, as the ground had become 
somewhat broken and uneven, to proceed 
slowly. The heavy, waving plume becom- 
ing detached from Miss Linton’s cap, fell 
directly in front of the English thorough- 
bred, causing him to shy violently and then 
start off at a tremendous gallop. Nina was 
an accomplished rider and had no fear, think- 
ing that she could check the horse with ease, 
but she knew not his strength, nor how weak 
she had grown. Gathering the reins firmly, 
she first tried to check, then to turn him 
from the road — she could do neither, her 
frail fingers were as the weight of a feather 
on the reins. Poor girl, her efforts were 
fruitless, and her face became pale with 
anguish. Not more than a mile ahead was a 
precipice, generally known as the Black Ra- 
vine. If her horse turned the bend of the 
road she was lost. Oh! God, with what 
earnestness did she pray to be saved from 
so dreadful a fate. So young to die, among 
strangers too, and in a strange land. With 
what distinctness could she hear her own 
heart beat — it seemed counting out the sec- 
onds of her life. 

The group of trees was passed, the bend 
of the road turned, when a gentleman^ 
5 


66 


Darcy Pinckney 


dressed as a huntsman, mounted on a pow- 
erful blood-bay steed issued from the wood. 
As the horse dashed past, the hunter had 
only time to notice the look of anguish on 
the lovely face. Even in that dread moment, 
when death in his most awful form stood 
over her, she had recognized her brother and 
been recognized in turn. 

‘^Save me, Ernest!” she cried in a wild, sil- 
very voice, now racked with agony. For 
one moment the brain of the young man 
seemed to reel, then shouting, “I will save 
you or perish with you 1” he dashed the row- 
els in his horse’s side. “Keep to the right, my 
sister!” he called in a calm voice, more to in- 
spire her with courage than aught else; then 
bending forward to his horse’s neck he plunged 
the spurs more deeply still into the sides of the 
noble animal, which seemed to know that some 
great issue depended upon the strides he 
made, and the gallant “Bay Derrick” re- 
doubled his mighty efforts. 

On, on, he flew. He had gained the length 
of a yard upon the black steed, yet the runa- 
way with his lovely freight is nearer to the 
chasm. Another bound and she will be over. 
She knows her danger; in her young heart 
a prayer is formed. A misty film seems to 
obstruct her vision and she loses all con- 
sciousness. She knew not that before her 
horse could make the leap the loved one had 
reached her side, that a firm hand had 


Darcy Pinckney 


67 


grasped the bridle, while a strong arm was 
thrown around her waist to hold her more 
securely in the saddle. As the horse was 
jerked quickly, violently backward upon his 
haunches, she heard not the joyful cry, 
^‘Genie, sister, you are saved.” She felt not 
the warm kisses that were pressed on her 
cold face. That second on the verge of the 
cliff had been too much — she had fainted. 
,With the aid of the vinaigrette attached to 
her watchguard he soon restored her to con- 
sciousness, and she murmured her thanks 
for his timely assistance. 

“Tell me of my father, and how came you 
here, dear Genie ?” he inquired. 

“Yonder are my friends. I am known,” 
and a blush mantled the pale face, “as Nina 
Mendoza. Call me Miss Nina.” And as the 
ladies rode up, “I will tell you all some other 
time.” She introduced him as her friend, 
then told about her peril and his timely aid. 
Changing saddles, he placed Nina upon Bay 
Derrick, the noble steed that had been so 
instrumental in saving her life, and mounting 
the black steed he accompanied the ladies 
home. Mrs. Linton pressed him to dine with 
them. He declined on the plea of business 
matters that needed his attention, but asked 
permission to call on Nina the same evening, 
which was granted. 

“You must rest, dear,” said Mrs. Linfon 
as she went with Nina to her room. Notic- 


68 


Darcy Pinckney 


mg’ that tears rested on the girl’s sad face, 
and being of a kind and generous nature, 
she could not see Nina’s grief unmoved. 
Drawing the young girl to a seat beside her, 
she passed her arms around her waist and 
caressed the jetty hair, asking in a voice of 
motherly kindness why she wept. 

'‘You are unhappy, Nina. Tell me your 
cause for sorrow, dear; possibly I may 
soothe your grief.” 

There was a struggle in Nina’s heart. 
Should she tell this friend her troubles? Yes, 
she needed sympathy so much; and burying 
her face in the young wife’s lap, she told her 
story of suffering. Only once was the lady 
startled. It was when she mentioned Mary 
Tee as a dear friend. She had not yet told 
her father’s name, but pausing in her story 
was sobbing bitterly. 

Mrs. Tinton kissed the tear-stained face, 
saying, 

“I have known you long, through Mamie’s 
letters. Yes, you are, you must be Miss 
Genie Hartly of whom she writes so much. 
How stupid not to have found you out 
sooner, my dear!” 

“I am the wealthy Miss Hartly no longer!” 
Then mildly, calmly she finished her sad 
story. 

“Have I acted right, dear friend?” she in- 
quired. 


Darcy Pinckney 


69 


nine girls out of ten of your tempera- 
ment would have done, my child. You were 
a little rash, however, in leaving your kind 
father’s house without having told him your 
motive for going away. But do not grieve,” 
she added, as a cloud of sadness rested on 
the girl’s face ; ^‘try to be more cheerful and 
all will yet be well. You know ‘He who 
bears the cross to-day will wear the crown 
to-morrow.’ ” 

“I have worn the crown, and now am so 
weary of the cross !” mournfully replied the 
girl. 

“You will wear again the crown. It will 
be one of roses or perchance of pure orange 
flowers,” said Mrs. Linton pleasantly. “Have 
you entirely recovered from your fright, 
dear?” 

“Oh yes, entirely so.” 

The ladies chatted for some time, when 
suddenly Nina inquired, 

“Did not you say that May Lee is a cousin 
of your own?” 

“Yes, a dear cousin, whom I have not seen 
since we were little girls. We were school- 
mates, confidantes, and the best of friends. 
We have until recently kept up a regular cor- 
respondence. My eldest, little Minnie, is 
named after her; but Mr. Linton persists in 
calling her Minnie — ’tis a pet name of his — 
my own — you know.” 

“You are the Minnie, then, of whom I 


70 Darcy Pinckney 

have heard my friend speak so often. I am 
so glad that I have met and know you.’' 

“It seems strange, dear, that I did not 
recognize you sooner; for May sent me a 
correct pen picture of you. There was an- 
other friend about whom she often wrote 
— Clara Hume. Is she still unmarried ?” 

“Yes, but is engaged to a young Mr. Wal- 
singham. She is a sweet girl, and is as good 
as she is accomplished.” 

“Is my little cousin heart-whole yet?” 

“I think not. She is engaged to Robert 
Hume, a brother of Clara’s.” 

“Will the match be a good one?” 

“So far as worldly riches, pomp, etc., go, 
it will not. As far as true merit, moral worth, 
and goodness of heart go, it will. He is of 
a noble but impoverished family, and has a 
mother and two sisters dependent on him 
for support. He has talents of the highest 
order and promises to become a leading 
member of the bar ; that is, if he pursues his 
law studies. He is devoted to May, and then 
is such a fond son and brother.” 

“I truly hope that my fair little cousin’s 
course of love may run smooth. I have some 
misgivings though. Aunt was ever a proud, 
worldly woman, yet I scarcely think that she 
will be able to withstand May’s entreaties. 
Uncle Herbert always made a pet of his fairy, 
as he always called May. There is one more 


Darcy Pinckney 


71 


friend about whom I wish to ask. Are you 
acquainted with Ella Mason?” 

‘‘Yes; she, too, is to be married soon; is 
the betrothed of Leslie Lee.” 

“Why, May never wrote me a word of 
this ! Ella was a lovely child. Both May and 
Ella are many years my junior. I remember 
Leslie used to claim her for his little wife 
even then, and would never tease or worry 
her, as he did our other playmates, but al- 
ways petted and humored the sweet, though 
spoilt child.” 


CHAPTER VIII 


After a quick trip Robert Hume and Roy 
Clifford arrived in New Orleans. Although 
somewhat prepared by the kind letter written 
by Mrs. Clifford, still they were shocked to see 
the ravages which the dread disease had 
made on the face they loved so well. The 
mother almost fainted as she pressed him in 
her arms. 

“Oh ! Robert, my son, my son !” 

“Do not grieve, dear mother. It is all for 
the best. I will get stronger here at home. 
You must nurse me, mother. I feel so con- 
tented to be with you all again. Do you not 
think that it will come near making me feel 
well again, dear sister?” as he turned to the 
weeping girl. 

“Yes, brother, we are glad to have you 
with us ; but oh ! we did not expect to see 
you thus.” 

“Clara, sister, cheer up ; for mother’s sake 
try to hide your grief.” Then exclaimed, “I 
have not introduced my friend.” Clifford, 
from feelings of delicacy, had remained 
standing aloof, but now came forward and 
was warmly welcomed by both mother and 
daughter. 

Linking his arm within his friend’s they 
passed into the house. Roy soon placed 


Darcy Pinckney 


73 


Robert in an easy position on a large lounge 
in the front room. As the sick youth rested 
there a look of happiness settled on his still, 
and were well pleased with their young 
clear features. 

“Do you feel better now.” 

“Yes! I feel so contented being here at 
home. Do not deem me ungrateful, Roy. 
I received every comfort at your father’s 
house and he and your mother were very 
kind. And you — ah! Was there ever a 
better, truer brother?” 

“You must rest now, Robert. After a 
little while you may converse with your 
mother and sister.” 

On hearing the former re-enter the room, 
he asked, 

“Is my probation ended, Roy?” 

“Yes, but do not exert yourself too much.” 
And shaking the pillow, he arranged the 
young man’s head in a more comfortable po- 
sition. Immediately after, Clara entered, 
bringing a goblet containing a strengthening 
cordial, which he swallowed eagerly. 

“Mother, where is Lily?” 

“She is at Mrs. Lee’s, my son, but will be 
at home soon. I am expecting her every 
moment.” 

“When will Ned be at home?” 

“We received a note from him saying that 
we must brighten up, and be ready to enter- 


74 


Darcy Pinckney 


tain him, as he would be here to take tea 
with us to-morrow evening,” said Clara. 

“That sounds like our gay, wild Ned. Fm 
so proud of the boy. You will like him, 
Roy,” he said to his friend ; and turning to 
his sister, “When did mother say that Lily 
would come?” 

“May carried Lily home with her yester- 
day and will bring her home with her this 
morning.” Noticing the flush that passed 
over his face, the young girl bent over and 
whispered, “Mamie is quite well, dear, and 
is with us often. And now, brother, you 
must rest; for when Lily comes you will 
wish to chat. It would exert you too much. 
Would it not, Mr. Cliflord?” 

“I fear so. Miss Clara. If you install your- 
self as nurse you must be very stern, or our 
patient will never obey orders.” 

“Ah, no. I will rule him gently. It is far 
better you know.” Seating herself beside 
the sick man and gazing on his pale, hand- 
some face she talked in low, soothing tones, 
telling about all that had occurred in his ab- 
sence. He listened to her sweet voice as a 
child would have listened to some silvery- 
voiced songster or to a musical instrument 
of great tone. 

A ring at the door-bell, and ere a second 
elapsed. May Lee and Lily entered the room. 
One moment the girl stood mute, motion- 
less, gazing at the pale, wan face before her. 


Darcy Pinckney 


75 ' 


then uttering a low, startled cry, sprang for- 
ward, and kneeling there, threw her arms 
about his neck, all the while sobbing pit- 
eously. Pressing the fair head with its 
wealth of clustering curls closely to his bo- 
som the young man tried to soothe her. 

“My little May, you must not grieve thus.” 

“Oh ! Robbie, can I look on you so pale, 
so feeble, and not grieve? You are not go- 
ing to die ; you will not die and leave me ! 
Oh! Robert, I have loved you ever since I 
was a child, and I cannot, will not give you 
up.” 

“May,” and he lifted the fair, tear-stained 
face and gazed into the pure blue eyes, 
“May dear, though separated here on earth, 
we can be reunited in heaven. It is wrong, 
dear, to question or cavil at the will of Him, 
our Father, who art in Heaven.” 

“I know it! I know it,” sobbed the girl; 
“yet I am so weak, so weak.” 

“Look to Him for strength, darling. ‘The 
bruised reed He will not break.’ Remember 
always that those whom ‘He loveth best. He 
chasteneth most’ ; and that it is done in 
mercy, never in wrath. After this trying 
ordeal you will be still more worthy to be- 
come one of His bright, beautiful angels. 
Think, only think of the love that He felt 
even for the most humble of us in sending 
His only son to die for our sakes. And such 
a death — a death of agony upon the cross. 


76 


Darcy Pinckney 


And remember, dear one, it was to save us 
all. Think of all that He, in His love, hath 
done for us, then you will acknowledge that 
‘He doeth all things well,’ and you will cease 
to grieve.” 

“Yet, oh, Robbie! how can I give you 
up?” 

“You are young, very young. May; you 
may yet be happy.” 

“No, never, never if not with you. To 
you have I given my heart’s best love. There 
may yet be hope. Oh 1 tell me that you may 
yet recover. You could not talk so calmly 
if there was no hope.” 

A spasm of pain for a moment marred the 
beauty of the young man’s face. “Darling, 
do not for a second yield to the vain delusion 
of hope. Ah I there is no hope for me, I 
have tried to cheat myself into the belief that 
I might recover. Oh! May, it is so hard 
to leave you. I cannot be as I should be, 
calm and resigned, when I see. you in tears.” 
And for the first time since his arrival, he 
wept. 

Then the true character of his betrothed 
displayed itself. Kneeling there she lightly 
smoothed the hair from his brow and mur- 
mured gentle words of comfort. “Do not 
weep, dear. I will try so hard to be re- 
signed; will strive never again to murmur 
at the all-powerful decree of Providence. I 
will think of you, not as lost, but only gone 


Darcy Pinckney 


77 


before; and you shall not await me long, 
dear love.” Her voice had grown calm, 
and became more earnest as she spoke. 

Clara entered the room and their painful 
interview was ended. Both young hearts 
were bleeding, yet they tried to bow submis- 
sively to the decree of God. Before taking 
leave she stooped and whispered gently, 
“God bless you!” and turned to leave the 
room. 

“You will come again. May?” 

“Yes, dear, and will strive to be more re- 
signed, and to bow in all humility to our 
Master’s decree.” The sweet voice quivered, 
and turning hastily away she left the room. 

For two weeks he lingered along, as if 
loth to leave the green earth, which to his 
dying eyes appeared so surpassingly beauti- 
ful. His young betrothed was with him 
often, and by her gentle words and soothing 
ways helped to smooth his weary way to the 
grave. He loved life more, yet seemed to 
fear death less, now that May had become 
resigned. She spoke not of death as the 
“King of Terror;” no, but only as a bright- 
hued angel, a trusted messenger of the Lord, 
sent to waft the spirits of his earthly chil- 
dren to their abodes among the blessed. 

A few days after his return he inquired if 
any news concerning Miss Hartly had been 
received. 

“No,” replied his sister, “and the cause of 


78 


Darcy Pinckney 


her absence is still shrouded with mystery. 
Mr. Hartly returned yesterday but came 
alone.” 

‘‘I am sorry that he was not successful in 
his search, yet arn glad that he has returned. 
He will prove a friend to mother and your- 
self, dear sister.” A spasm of pain distorted 
his features whilst the blood gushed from 
mouth and nostrils. 

With a scream of terror, Clara sprang to 
his side. ‘'Oh! what shall I do? What can 
I do?” Roy Clifford came to her relief by 
giving such restoratives as his friend needed. 
He lay there so silent, that but for the hectic 
flush on each wan cheek, one would have 
numbered him with the dead. Clara seated 
herself beside him. Mrs. Hume and Lily 
stood by the bedside weeping, for well they 
knew that he soon would leave them, that 
ere many hours the dark eyes, that had never 
looked on them with aught but love, would 
close to open on the light of day no more, 
the music of his voice be hushed, the body 
go down to the grave, the soul, in shining 
raiment, return to the God who gave it. 

Clifford stood stricken with sorrow at the 
foot of the bed, gazing at the friend he was 
so soon to lose. 

The sick man’s voice broke the stillness. 

“Mother dear, has May come?” 

“She will soon be here, my son.” 


Darcy Pinckney 


79 


‘‘And Ned, why hasn’t Ned come?” he 
asked. “I do so wish to see him !” 

“Buddie, Ned has been sick, and couldn’t 
come,” said little Lily. 

“Sick, and not tell me ! Oh ! what has been 
the matter with him?” 

“He has had a slight attack of typhoid 
fever. A kind old physician wrote to us that 
he was in no danger, that we might expect 
him at any moment.” 

“Ah ! I hear a step in the hall- — it is 
Ned’s.” A flush passed over the sick man’s 
face. The next moment a youth of fifteen, 
a handsome, black-eyed boy, staggered, 
rather than walked, into the room. Throw- 
ing himself beside his brother, he twined his 
arms about his neck. 

“Oh ! Bertie, have I come home only in 
time to see you die? My brother, I was 
stricken with fever, not a day’s journey from 
here, and feared that I would be too late. 
Oh! must we lose you now?” Burying his 
face in the bedclothes he sobbed aloud. May 
Lee came in and happiness seemed to return 
to the dying man. 

“I can die happy now,” he murmured, “all 
my loved ones here.” 

Gently yet firmly leading the boy away. 
May said, 

“Do not grieve so. You will disturb him, 
Eddie. You must try to be firmer, dear. 


80 


Darcy Pinckney 


Remember your mother and sisters ; restrain 
your own grief, and try to soothe theirs.” 

‘‘Oh! my poor mother,” and putting his 
arms about his mother’s neck he sobbed. 
“What a trial? How can we do without 
him, our pride?” 

Clara calmly told him that he was weak and 
needed rest, and made him lie down on the 
sofa. “Look at May, dear Ned, our broth- 
er’s promised bride. Think you she mourns 
not? Oh! her heart is breaking now, and 
yet she murmurs not but has been our chief 
solace in this trying time.” 

They saw not the scalding tears that 
poured down the young girl’s face as she 
leaned over the almost inanimate form of 
him she loved. He saw them, felt them 
dropping on his face. Even with the shadow 
of death upon him, he felt that it was hard, 
hard to give her up. Clasping his arms 
about her slender waist, he cried, 

“May, my darling, I must give you up! 
Oh ! this is the bitterness of death ! Mother, 
you will always love my promised one. And, 
Mamie, I leave -a mission for you — help my 
sister to console poor mother, good, kind 
mother. And do not let little Lily forget 
me before she is grown. Talk often to her 
about the brother whom she will know no 
more. Can you take the trust, dear one?” 

“Yes, Robert; I will do all that you wish, 
and will accept this as a sacred trust. Lily, 


Darcy Pinckney 


81 


our little sister, never shall forget you,’’ as 
she drew the fair child closely to her. 

He knew that in a few moments he would 
be a form of lifeless clay. Already the death- 
damp was gathering on his brow. Already 
he could feel death’s pinions wafting o’er 
him. He knew that he was bidding them a 
long, a last adieu. Ah! that parting scene 
was a solemn one I 

In a calm, unbroken voice he told his 
mother, the gentle being who had watched 
over his youth, that he was not afraid to 
travel through the "‘Valley of Shadows” — 
there was no gloom, all was brightness. 

“Do not mourn for me, mother darling. 
I go to a land of beauty ; no sorrow, no part- 
ing there. And, mother, our family circle 
will again be reunited in Heaven, never more 
to be broken. Clara, I must leave you. Bless 
you, sweet sister, you have been a true 
friend to me. Do not weep, there is hope 
beyond the grave. I fear death not, he is 
coming to take me home. Edward, dear 
young brother, I leave you a duty to per- 
form — these dear ones must be your care; 
and my little May is one of these. Lily, you 
must not forget poor brother. Little sister, 
my pretty pet, I love you so much. Roy, 
thou hast been a true friend and brother, yet 
I must give you up. 

“May darling, is this death ?” A gray hue 
6 


82 


Darcy Pinckney 


crept over the still face, the blue-veined lids 
drooped over the dim eyes. The weary 
spirit passed away, away from those weeping 
ones to cross that bourne from whence no 
traveler e’er returns. 

The third day after the young man’s 
death a number of his friends were as- 
sembled at the cemetery to witness his 
burial. A tall, elegant figure passed Mr. 
Hartly. A moment and his hand was on her 
arm. 

“Eugenia,” he said. 

The lady stopped, and removing her veil 
disclosed the tear-stained, lovely face of 
Clara Hume. 

“ Mr. Hartly, I presume.” 

“Yes, lady. Pray pardon my seeming 
rudeness. Excuse my mistaking you for one 
very dear to me.” Stepping aside he allowed 
the lady to pass on, and with an air of ex- 
treme disappointment turned away, musing, 
“Am I never to find her? My heart whis- 
pered that it was my daughter. Yet the 
girl’s sweet face haunts me strangely. I’ve 
surely seen those soft, dark eyes before now. 
She resembles Genie. Ah! it is the Miss 
Hume of whom I have heard my child 
speak.” 

After having sought and obtained an in- 
troduction to the bereaved mother, and hav- 
ing offered promises of assistance whenever 


Darcy Pinckney 


83 


needed, Mr. Hartly wended his way home- 
ward. 

The grief-stricken family, accompanied by 
May, returned to their now cheerless home. 
The smile of him who had helped to make 
life happy was no more. 

Greatly astonished were both Mr. and 
Mrs. Lee to learn that their lovely and ac- 
complished daughter had been engaged to 
the poor young lawyer. Much greater was 
their surprise when she appeared, habited in 
deep mourning, to attend the burial of the 
man she had loved. Her mother remon- 
strated, but to no purpose. 

‘What will people say, my child?” 

‘T do not know, mamma. Yet I will show 
them this token of love and respect. I can- 
not dress gaily, for my heart is filled with 
grief. Do not say aught against my wearing 
black, mamma. I may not wear it long, yet 
my poor heart will be in mourning while I 
live.” 

The last few words made the mother, vain 
and worldly as she was, yield. She knew not 
the hidden meaning of the words, nor 
dreamed that her fair child, the poor broken- 
hearted creature, was alluding to the time 
when she would change her mourning garb 
for the snowy habilaments of the grave. 
Kissing her daughter’s lips, she left the 
room. 

May attended the funeral, and with her 


84 


Darcy Pinckney 


arms around Mrs. Hume’s waist she stood 
at the foot of the grave, stood there calm 
and motionless. Not a quiver of the lips 
told of the inward struggle. She saw the 
last sod thrown upon his grave, then nature 
gave way. With the mournful cry, ^‘Come 
back ! my beloved, come back !” she 
swooned away, and in a state of unconscious- 
ness was carried from the grave. 


CHAPTER IX 


We now return to wild, reckless Phil 
Walker, whom we left breathing oaths of 
vengeance against Guy Walsingham; left 
him struggling either to overcome or yield 
to the good angel seeking to master his 
wicked impulses. Reaching home he threw 
himself in a chair. Many and conflicting 
were the thoughts that chased each other 
through his mind. Early dawn found him 
still sitting there, thinking of that sad, sad, 
wicked past, thinking of Inez, then again of 
Walsingham. “Ah, Inez, would that I were 
fit to meet you in Heaven ! They will deem 
me a coward. I must send a challenge. 
Bagby will be here. Ah! old fellow, I was 
just thinking of you. Here is a note to Wal- 
singham. Will you be the bearer, and will you 
act as my second? You remember what so 
lately occurred ?” 

“Yes; but, Phil, is this duel unavoidable?” 

“Utterly so ! We must settle it with blood, 
and blood alone!” was the fierce answer. 

“Then I will carry your letter.” 

An hour later a ring at the bell, and a waiter 
announced “Mr. Saxton.” 

“Ask him up.” 

The gentleman came to arrange affairs 
concerning the approaching duel. 


86 


Darcy Pinckney 


“I leave it all to my second, Mr. Bagby. 
Anything satisfactory to him will suit me.” 

Hailing a cab, the young men entered and 
were soon whirled outside the limits of the 
city. 

Guy Walsingham, accompanied by a sur- 
geon, had just reached the ground. 

“Your surgeon has not arrived yet, Phil.” 

“It is of no consequence. We will not 
wait for him, Bagby,” was the reply. 

The seconds, with due precision, stepped 
off the ground and counted the number of 
paces which the young men were to stand 
apart. They received their weapons, took 
the places assigned them, whilst the phys- 
ician retired to the shade of a huge magnolia 
to think about the hot-blooded youngsters 
who so recklessly were seeking to throw 
their lives away. The young men were 
ready. Guy’s face was pale, yet he appeared 
firm and determined ; his opponent was both 
reckless and miserable. 

“One, two, three — ” 

As the last word was given the reports of 
both pistols were heard. 

Guy fell, the blood spurting from an ugly 
wound in his left shoulder, his left arm hang- 
ing powerless by his side. Before the doc- 
tor reached him he had fainted. 

Walker reeled to where he lay. Bending 
over him he said, “I am glad that he is not 
dead. He is a brave fellow, and I would not 


Darcy Pinckney 


ST 


have his death at my door.” Then reeling, 
staggering, he walked toward the cab. 

Bagby sprang after to assist him. 

“Why, Phil, I did not know that you had 
been touched.” 

“Ah! it is a matter of no import, only a 
trifle. Help me in there. I’m all right. 
Order the driver to take me home.” 

“Very well, and I will go for a surgeon,” 
and he hurried away. 

Three weeks after the duel we see Guy re- 
clining on a lounge in his mother’s room. 

“Mother, will Clara come to-day?” 

“Yes, my son, she will soon be here. She 
told me that May was coming with her.” 

“Who, Miss Lee?” 

“Yes, she spends the most of her time at 
Mrs. Hume’s.” 

Guy was still quite feeble. The physicians 
said that many weeks would elapse before he 
would be able to leave the room; that his 
strong constitution alone enabled him to 
“weather the storm.” He looked wan and 
pale, with deep blue circles around his hol- 
low eyes. His confinement to the house 
made him fretful. While he is longing for 
Clara’s presence we will take a peep at that 
young lady. 

Seated in her mother’s small, neat parlor, 
she was trying to soothe May’s grief, for the 
girl had been weeping about her dead love. 
It was Clara’s arms that encircled her waist, 


88 


Darcy Pinckney 


Clara’s soothing tones that whispered words 
of comfort. 

The girls were startled by a violent rap- 
ping at the street door, and a servant en- 
tered with a letter for Miss Clara and an- 
nounced that a cab awaited at the door. 

“I know this writing,” and a pleased look 
rested on the girl’s sweet face. ‘Tt is Eu- 
genia’s. She is in the city, and desires me to 
go to her at once, and that I must keep this 
a secret. She is in a secluded portion of the 
city and has sent a conveyance for me. Do 
you wish to go. May?” 

“I am feeling weary, dear, so will remain 
with your mother and Eily. Had not you 
better take Ned with you?” 

“Oh, no, he is at the counting-house, and 
I do not feel uneasy about going alone. 
Take a nap before I return, then we will go 
to Mr. Walsingham’s. Tell mamma where 
I am gone and that I will soon be back. So 
good-by, darling.” And kissing the fair, sad 
face, she hurried away to equip herself for 
her morning drive. She entered the cab and 
was driven to the address named in the note, 
wondering all the while why Eugenia, her 
fastidious friend, should have taken up abode 
in that dismal street. Why, she could be 
murdered and no one come to her relief, no 
one be the wiser. Then a drear loneliness 
came over her. “Oh, no,” she murmured, 
trying to banish such fears, “the writing is 


Darcy Pinckney 


89 


Genie’s very own. The driver certainly has 
a miserable look, but he must be trustworthy 
or she would not have sent him.” 

The horses were reined up in front of the 
door of a large, dingy-looking house. The 
door knocker was rapped several times be- 
fore the door was opened. 

‘'Who comes now?” asked a gruff voice. 

“The lady Miss Hartly sent for,” replied 
the cabman. 

“Ah! Miss Hume. Walk in this way, my 
lady.” 

She was shown into a large, finely fur- 
nished apartment. To her consternation 
she heard the door slam, and turning found 
herself a prisoner. She stood as if paralyzed 
by fear until she heard the opening of an- 
other door in the same apartment, and 
Walker stood before her, yet so pale, so 
emaciated that she scarcely knew him. A 
scream of terror escaped the lips of the 
frightened girl. 

“Why have they brought me here? The 
note said that I was to see Eugenia Hartly. 
Oh! I see it all now.” 

“Can you ask. Miss Hume, why I have 
brought you here? You will know soon 
enough, fair lady. Why have I brought you 
here? To satisfy my thirst for vengeance 
on your boy lover Walsingham, to crush his 
proud spirit, to break his heart. Yes, thus 
will I wreak my vengeance on his head. 


90 


Darcy Pinckney 


Clara, it is not that I love you. I do not; 
my heart has been dead to woman’s smiles 
for years.” Pressing his hand to his brow, 
he continued, ‘‘I feel as though at times I 
were going mad. No, I do not feel right 
here.” And again he wearily smoothed his 
brow, “I made advances to you for your 
friendship only and was met with scorn and 
contempt. Your frowns have aroused a 
slumbering demon in my heart that all the 
tears you can summon, all the prayers that 
you might repeat could not subdue. Your 
lover struck me, we fought, the blow was 
wiped out in his blood, he wounded me in 
turn. I tried to forget then, but brooding 
over my wrongs here I found that I had 
neither forgotten nor forgiven. To-morrow 
you go with me to England.” 

^'Oh! you cannot be thus wicked. God 
will surely curse you if you are. Tell me 
that this is some horrid dream; tell me this 
and I will bless you.” 

'T wish not your blessing. I know that I 
am a wicked man. I care not. I tell you 
life is worthless. Does it matter how it is 
spent? All that I have said I promise you 
shall be.” 

She shuddered as she noted the fierce 
glow that flushed his dark, handsome face; 
as she saw the lurid gleam in his dark eyes; 
as she distinctly understood what, unless some 
timely rescue came, threatened to be her fate. 


Darcy Pinckney 


91 


Summoning her womanly fortitude to her 
aid she said in her sweet, calm voice. 

“Mr. Walker, I am scarcely acquainted 
with you. I do not remember ever having 
treated you with contempt. If I did so it 
was merited, yet I scorn you now. You are 
no gentleman thus to treat a helpless 
woman !” 

“On your peril, not another word ! I must 
bid you adieu, as I go to prepare for our 
journey.” A sardonic smile lighted his 
handsome face as he left the room. 

Had his good angel then deserted him? 
He had struggled long and fiercely to sub- 
due its opponent, the evil spirit; but it be- 
came conqueror — he, the dark, stern man, 
the conquered. He had brooded, in those 
few weeks of illness, upon his wrongs until 
he had almost become a madman. The 
man’s reason was so beclouded that he knew 
not what he was doing. 

For several moments Clara remained 
standing in an attitude of deep despair, then 
throwing herself upon the carpeted floor, 
buried her face in the soft cushion of a 
chair. 

“Oh ! why did I come ? And yet the writ- 
ing seemed to be Eugenia’s very own. What 
will they think of me? And Guy, poor Guy, 
and dear mamma, this will kill them. I may 
yet escape.” Hastily arising she began a 
faithful survey of the room. There were 


92 


Darcy Pinckney 


many doors but all locked. ‘^Oli ! if I only 
had something with which to pick these 
locks.’' She examined the articles scattered 
on the surface of the center table, but found 
naught that could be of any assistance. 
There was a dainty work-basket, some light 
embroidery, a gold thimble small enough to 
have graced the tiny finger of “Queen Mab” 
or any other of her fairy tribe. The scissors 
were so tiny that the girl looked at them in 
mute despair. There were several novels, a 
book or two of poems, an oil painting partly 
finished — the head and face of a lovely child. 
As the girl examined it more closely she 
murmured, “How lovely, oh, how exquisite 
must be the original!” 

A sudden hope sprang up in her heart, for 
she then remembered that Phil Walker had 
a sister, a sweet child whom he had lately 
brought from Italy, where part of her young 
life had been spent within the walls of a con- 
vent. Yet again her hopes were dashed. 
How could this young girl be communicated 
with? Tired with thought, she wearily 
seated herself on an ottoman near the table. 

“I will meet the worst with fortitude — can 
die if need be; and trust to the good God 
above to reveal to those dear ones my fate.” 

At that moment she heard a rich, musical 
voice chanting an Italian song. One chorus 
only did she hear, and then the voice, so 
sweet, so clear, so bird-like in its gushing 


Darcy Pinckney 


93 


melody, died away. “Ah! that was hope 
sent to cheer my drooping spirit. Bless the 
sweet songstress for this one ray of bright- 
ness.” And kneeling there long and earn- 
estly she prayed to be taken from out of the 
snare into which she had fallen. The sud- 
den creakirlg of a door caused her to glance 
hurriedly around, expecting, fearing to see 
the face of Walker. What then was her sur- 
prise on beholding the original of the pic- 
ture she had deemed so lovely. The stranger 
also seemed amazed, the more so when Clara 
sprang toward her, grasping her small hands 
as she exclaimed, “Save I oh, save me I” 
Closing the door, the child — she appeared 
scarcely more — requested Clara to be seated, 
and throwing herself on a stool at Clara’s 
feet, continued in a musical, foreign voice, 
“I heard your prayer, lady. It seems as 
though you are in danger. Tell me all, why 
you are here, and the peril that you dread. 
I will do all that I can for you. Brother Phil 
cannot know aught of this.” 

Clara started. Good Heaven, was this 
lovely child that bold man’s sister? “I must 
not tell her of his part in this drama. I can- 
not wound her generous heart.” Thus she 
mused, then said, 

“I will tell you my situation. Will you 
in turn promise to help me immediately?” 
“Yes, I do sincerely make you this prom- 


94 


Darcy Pinckney 


ise, lady; for truth and goodness are im- 
printed on your sweet face.” 

Parting the short jetty curls that clustered 
around the child-like brow, Clara pressed a 
kiss thereon, and in her low voice told about 
the note she had received and how she had 
been made captive. 

“May I ask your name, sweet lady?” 

“Yes; it is Clara Hume.” 

“Ah ! I was listening to hear you say Eu- 
genia Hartly.” 

“Are you acquainted with her?” 

“No, I have seen her picture. My brother 
has it. You resemble her very much.” 

“I have often been told of this strange re- 
semblance. I say strange, because we are 
not related to each other. Is your brother 
a friend of Miss Hartly’s?” 

“No, he obtained her picture at a picture 
gallery here in the city. I am ready to serve 
you in any way, lady.” 

“Then will you help me to escape?” 

“Escape!” and a silvery laugh floated on 
the air. “You were brought here in mis- 
take, and freely, openly shall you go away. 
Yet I wish that you were not in such haste 
to leave,” she said sadly. 

“Sweet little girl, I have friends who will 
be very uneasy at my protracted absence.” 

“You seem so distressed that I will order 
my coachman, and make him take you home, 
or to any place that you may wish to go. Ah, 


Darcy Pinckney 


95 


yes, he can be trusted.” And kissing Clara 
she left the room. In a few moments she 
returned. Throwing a large, handsome 
cloak about Clara’s shoulders, and placing a 
hat with drooping plumes on her head she 
said, ‘‘The carriage is ready. Miss Clara, and 
you are so completely disguised that my 
coachman will not know who you are. Per- 
chance he may take you for myself, for I had 
ordered the carriage to go around to Bent- 
ly’s store. I have given the coachman, who 
is near-sighted, orders to drive at once to 
Bently’s. You will be in safety there.” 

“Oh, yes; Mr. Robards, the head clerk, 
is one of our kindest friends. I owe you 
more than thanks, more than words can tell. 
Good-by, may God forever bless you !” Kiss- 
ing the young girl warmly, she asked her 
name. 

“It is Inez, lady.” 

“A sweet name for one so good, so beauti- 
ful. I hope to meet you again. Wear this 
for the sake of the stranger whom you to- 
day befriended,” she said, as she slipped a 
broad band of gold on one of the Italian 
girl’s slender fingers. “Dear little friend, 
once more adieu.” Stepping into the car- 
riage she was driven away, and soon after 
stepped out in front of one of the largest and 
most fashionable dry goods stores in the 
city, Bently’s, fronting on Dryad street. Tell- 
ing the coachman to return home, she 


96 


Darcy Pinckney 


handed him a note, with the words, ^‘Kor 
Miss Inez,” at the same moment slipping a 
gold piece in the man’s hand. She then en- 
tered the store, and asking one of the young 
clerks to send Mr. Robards to her, she sank 
exhausted on a chair. 

“Mr. Robards is sick, has not come down 
to-day,” was the respectful answer. 

“I am sorry. Is he very sick?” 

“Only a fever. I can tell him that you 
desired to see him.” 

“Oh, no, I only wished to ask his aid were 
he here.” 

The young clerk was about to offer his 
services, when Mr. Hartly stepped forward 
and offered his own. Clara told how she had 
been decoyed from home, also by whose aid 
she made her escape, at the same time asking 
that the affair might be kept a secret. 

“My dear young lady, you wish to return 
home. May I escort you? You look fa- 
tigued. I will call a carriage.” 

Soon Clara arrived at home. Mrs. Hume 
said that she had felt alarmed and had 
sent for her son to go and escort his sister 
home. While they were speaking he walked 
in. 

“What is the trouble, mother? Your note 
made me so uneasy about sister.” 

The boy’s face flushed furiously as he lis- 
tened to the tale his sister told. 


Darcy Pinckney 


97 


“He is a villain, sister, and shall atone 
for this!” 

“No, Neddie, let the affair drop, for his 
sweet young sister’s sake. She is so child- 
like and innocent, and she saved me. I would 
not bring pain to her girlish heart. We will 
say no more about it, dear brother, and I 
promise not to be so rash and imprudent 
another time.” 

“Ah! Miss Inez has played me some 
trick,” soliloquized the coachman as he was 
returning home. “I thought that Miss Inez 
wished to go shopping, and all the time it 
was to send Mars Phil’s mistress away. I 
was not so blind but that I found it out at 
once. Miss Inez has been a kind young 
lady to me and mine, and Master Phil may 
pull me to pieces with wild horses before I 
tell about this morning’s work. Bless the 
child, I would not have a hair of her young 
head harmed ! She saved my little ones from 
starving, made my old woman happy by 
sending a purse of gold, and so often reads 
the Bible to my old blind mother. No, I 
would not do anything to make her brother 
angry with her, for all the world.” 

After bidding adieu to Clara, Mr. Hartly 
proceeded to his own home. The same even- 
ing he set sail for Europe. He had received 
a note from Mr. Walsingham requesting his 
immediate attendance. Being in such haste 
7 


98 


Darcy Pinckney 


Mr. Hartly only had time to reply by note 
that he was sorry he had not a moment to 
spare, scarcely time to write, and sent re- 
grets at his inability to comply with the gen- 
tleman’s request, as in a few minutes he 
would leave the city for months, perhaps 
years. 

Mr. Walsingham was sadly disappointed 
that Mr. Hartly had left the city, for the 
reply to his note did not reach him until late 
the next day. After a close scrutiny of the 
writing he unlocked an elegant Japanese 
cabinet, and taking out several notes com- 
pared the handwriting. “It is much alike; 
this seems to have been written in a hasty 
manner, while this of earlier date was writ- 
ten with care and pains, to meet the eyes of 
the young bride. Strange that both names 
should have been destroyed. Not knowing 
Hartly’s route I will be compelled to await 
his return, hoping it may be soon.” 

Guy was in a state of excitement until as- 
sured by his mother of Clara’s safety. He 
reproached himself a thousand times for not 
having warned her of Walker. Several 
times he tried to leave the room, each time 
only to grow more faint and giddy. 

“Mother dear, who told you of Clara’s 
safety?” 

“A note from her, my son.” 

“Will you read it to me, mother?” 

“You must stop talking, Guy, or I fear 
that you will start your hemorrhage afresh.” 


Darcy Pinckney 


99 


“Tell me then about Clara and I will be 
satisfied.” 

The voice sounding so quick and petulant 
brought tears to his mother’s eyes. Seat- 
ing herself beside him, seeming not to notice 
his petulance, she unfolded the tiny violet- 
perfumed note. Guy saw the sorrow on her 
face, and the thought rushed through his 
mind that he was the cause. In a moment 
his arms were clasped closely about her neck 
and his head rested on her bosom as so oft 
in the days of his happy, gladsome childhood 
it had done. 

“Mother darling, forgive your passionate, 
wayward Guy. It is this sickness that makes 
your poor boy so cross. Only say that you 
are not angry with me.” 

“No, my son, not angry; only hurt.” 

“I will never speak so cross again. Scold 
me, mother, and let me be your little boy 
again.” 

“Guy, my darling, this shall be the seal of 
my forgiveness,” as she lovingly kissed the 
handsome forehead from which she had ca- 
ressingly smoothed the raven hair. In her 
clear, low voice she read Clara’s note, telling 
of her safety, begging not to let Guy be un- 
easy. She would call to see them the next 
morning, as she desired to begin again with 
her young pupils, to whom had been given 
holiday during Guy’s sickness. 


lofc. 


100 


Darcy Pinckney 


“Mother dear, how long am I to remain 
in my room?’’ 

“A week, dear; perhaps not so long. I 
will take you out in the carriage as soon as 
you are able to be moved.” 

“That will be so pleasant, and I will be so 
glad of the change, ma mere, for I am getting 
tired of the dolce far niente of a sick room. 
Mother, do let the little folks come up to see 
me. I’ve read until my eyes ache, am weary 
even of my favorite Tennyson now.” 

“The children have been eager to come, 
but I feared that they might disturb you.” 
And drawing down the loose folds of a mus- 
lin curtain and having arranged his pillows, 
his mother left him. 

“Charlie, come here, my son.” A slender, 
blue-eyed boy of nine summers came from 
the next room, where he had been playing 
loto with his little sister. 

“Here I am, mamma. Please tell me how 
brother Guy is?” 

“He is better dear. Where is Lena? He 
wishes to see you both.” 

“Lena is in the drawing-room. She is 
coming now.” And the door swung open, 
while a peal of childish laughter rang 
through the room, as a bird-like voice ex- 
claimed, “Brother Charlie, where are you?” 
and the fairy-like form of a child, over whose 
fair head the golden rays of seven summers 
had fallen, stood by her mother’s side. 


Darcy Pinckney 


101 


An attempt to draw a pen picture, a cor- 
rect one, of the strange, almost angelic 
beauty of the lovely child is impossible. 
Slender and lithe in figure, which was per- 
fect in every way. Her hands and arms so 
exquisitely rounded, with the soft curves 
and dainty nicks, would have served for the 
model of a sculptor. The graceful rounding 
of the shoulders was faultless. The face was 
so pure and angelic in expression that once 
beheld could never be forgotten. It was a 
small, oval face, with complexion of pearly 
whiteness, and a roseate hue that flushed the 
waxen cheeks; ears so small and delicate 
that they resembled dainty ‘'pink sea-shells;” 
features straight and regular; an infantile 
mouth, around which smiles were ever play- 
ing. Yet the greatest charm, that which en- 
tranced all who beheld the fairy child, was 
the calm, earnest expression that was ever 
mirrored in the dark blue eyes. A nameless 
something that rested there told that she 
was too precious a bud long to adorn her 
earthly home. The Angel of Death with his 
sickle keen awaits only a little while ere he 
gathers this bud to adorn the flower-gem- 
med gardens of Paradise. Every one loved 
her, from the old nurse down to the foot- 
man — all idolized the “sinless child.” But 
most of all in that happy household Charlie 
doted on and loved his little sister. For 
hours he would sit, her head resting on his 


102 


Darcy Pinckney 


lap, playing with the bright golden ringlets 
that adorned her young head, amusing her 
by telling the pretty Bible stories that she 
so loved to hear. 

“Oh mamma, take me to Buddie Guy!” 

“My little girl must be more quiet, must 
try to laugh more gently, and to speak in 
lower tones while poor brother is so sick, 
for his head aches badly.” 

“Please don’t be offended with me, 
mamma. I will be a good girl and not laugh 
or talk loudly any more.” And tears quiv- 
ered through the sweetness of the child’s 
voice, tears glided down the pure face. 

“I am not angry, my darling. Mamma 
knows that her Lena is a good little girl, only 
forgets sometimes. Do not cry, dear; see, 
Charlie is about to cry too ; dry your tears.” 
Stooping, she clasped the child closely to her 
heart. Did not some dread voice whisper 
that the Angel Azrael was keeping watch 
over her treasure? 

“Come, dears, I expect that brother will 
grow weary waiting for his pets.” The 
children entered the room softly, on tip-toe 
for fear of disturbing the sufferer. He had 
ever been a great favorite with the home 
circle. The little folks clambered up the 
side of the bed to kiss brother Guy. 

“Sweet little sister, I am going to install 
you as my nurse. Get the cologne and bathe 
my forehead. You sit here, Charlie, and tell 


Darcy Pinckney 


103 


me what you study, and if you are not glad 
that Miss Clara returns to-morrow?’^ 

The lively boy told of his studies, but 
dwelt particularly upon the beauty and good- 
ness of his dear young teacher; for child 
though he was he knew it was a theme that 
his brother loved. 

The last rays of the sun were seeking their 
home among the amber-hued clouds of the 
golden-tinged west ere Mrs. Walsingham 
came to remove the children. Charlie was 
still talking, though in an undertone. Lena 
had fallen asleep, her fair head resting on 
Guy’s pillow, the golden curls forming a 
strange contrast to his own locks of mid- 
night blackness. 

“Come, Charlie, papa is calling you. And, 
Lena dear — ” 

“Do not awake her, mother, she rests so 
sweetly. I want her here.” Turning, he 
buried his face among her glittering curls. 

“Do you need anything, my darling?” 

“No, dear mother; I am resting nicely 
now. When will Nellie be at home? I am 
so anxious to see her.” 

“Some time this week, so your aunt’s letter 
announced.” 

“How long is it, mother, since you have 
seen my sister?” 

“Nearly three years. She was thirteen 
when she went away. Her picture proclaims 
her to be a young lady and an extremely 


104 


Darcy Pinckney 


pretty one. Perchance it is only a fond 
mother’s partiality that makes me deem my 
dark-faced girl pretty. You must rest now, 
my son. Father will wish to chat with you, 
so try to rest awhile.” And again fondly 
kissing her handsome boy she left him. 

The next day Miss Hume resumed her du- 
ties as governess. 

On the same night that we introduce to 
our readers the youngest children of Mr. and 
Mrs. Walsingham we will also visit a differ- 
ent scene and in a different city. 

In an elegant drawing-room of one of the 
most fashionable houses in Charleston were 
collected a crowd of gay young school-girls. 

“Come, Nellie,” exclaimed a rosy-faced, 
laughing girl. “Do play us that gay, fanciful 
air that we learned last week.” 

“Yes,” said another, “it is the most ex- 
quisite thing and you play it superbly.” 

“Please excuse me, girls. I do not feel 
like playing anything gay or lively. I feel 
so sad. Poor brother is sick and I so far 
away.” Then as though afraid that she had 
wounded the feelings of her companions she 
said as she seated herself at the piano, “I 
will try to play it.” And she struck off into 
a grand, fanciful aria, her sweet, rich voice 
keeping time with the sounds drawn from 
the instrument by her taper fingers. “And 
now, Minnie, you shall have your favorite,” 


Darcy Pinckney 


105 


turning to an earnest, eager child standing 
near. ^‘What shall it be?’’ 

Taking a music book the child glanced 
over the pages and finally made a selection. 

“Close the book, dear; it is my favorite 
too.” And turning again to the piano she 
began one of Beethoven’s most sublime airs, 
her dark eyes filled with tears the while her 
fingers moved mechanically across the keys; 
for her heart was far away in her own lovely 
home, with the fond mother, the doting 
father; with the dear brother who had petted 
her so much, who now was sick and in pain, 
and she not near. Then she thought of 
Charlie, how she had taken the task of hear- 
ing him his prayers, and how he had wept 
the last night of her stay at home. She 
could not forget the little tearful face, the 
pleading voice as he said, “Don’t, sister. I 
had rather say ‘Our Father who art in 
heaven’ to you than to any one else.” And 
then little Lena, her especial pet and play- 
thing, had cried so violently. She thought of 
all this, and sobs almost shook her frame. 
The music became wailing and more than 
mournful were the sublime, passionate 
strains, and until the last note died away her 
friends stood with tear-lit eyes and clasped 
hands, drinking in the glorious music. 

“Oh, how splendid!” “Perfectly beauti- 
ful!” “Nellie dear, I thank you so much.” 
“Yes, ’twas a treat!” were the exclamations 


106 


Darcy Pinckney 


that greeted the young musician. A small 
pair of arms were clasped about her, a pair 
of earnest eyes gazed into her own. “Miss 
Nellie, I thank you so very much; that was 
my dead mamma’s favorite,” said the child- 
ish voice. Nellie pressed the slight figure 
more closely, saying, “I am glad, dear, that 
I have pleased you,” as she kissed the rosy 
mouth. 

“Emma, you take my place, and play for 
the girls.” 

“I think, dear Nellie, that we had best 
not play any more. Our musical proclivities 
might disturb your aunt. Had we not bet- 
ter correct our compositions?” 

“Yes, dear Em. And accept thanks for re- 
minding me of my duty. This week at 
school. The next at home.” And she 
brushed a tear from her large, dark eyes. 

Nellie Walsingham was not pretty, by 
many not even termed goodlooking. She 
seemed painfully conscious of the fact, and 
sought to cultivate her mind, which was al- 
ready stored with precious gems of knowl- 
edge. Her jetty hair was straight as an In- 
dians, eyes large and black, shaded by lashes 
of inky darkness; complexion so swarthy 
that a frolicsome schoolmate had playfully 
dubbed her “bright Alfarata.” She did not 
seem flattered by being classed with an In- 
dian maiden, and the pleasantry was never 
resumed. 


Darcy Pinckney 


107 


The girls, five in number, crowded around 
the marble-topped center table, were soon 
busy glancing over and correcting their com- 
positions. 

“Please, Nellie, correct this mistake. You 
are so much more clever than I am. I never 
could write my compositions. Brother Roy 
always helped me when I went to Miss Mar- 
tin’s school. Now he can never find time.” 
Thus rattled on a gay young creature, who 
was called “Genie” by her friends, and pet- 
ted by the whole school, partly because 
she was so bewitching in person, so winning 
in manners, partly because she was Miss 
Imogene Clifford, daughter of the wealthy 
lawyer of that name. The composition was 
corrected and handed to the little lady, while 
Nellie once more sought her own task. She 
had been chosen as the one most competent 
to write and deliver the valedictory address. 
She had written and rewritten until now it 
suited her own fastidious fancy and a flush 
of pleasure passed over her dark, sallow face 
as she thought of the triumph she would win. 

The girls had separated and gone to their 
homes, but she still sat by the table, buried in 
deep thought. 

“My dear child, what is the matter? Are 
you so very homesick?” and her aunt drew 
the girl to her side. 

“Oh ! Auntie, I cannot help thinking 


108 


Darcy Pinckney 


about brother Guy. He may be so sick, and 
I so far from him.” 

‘‘Do not grieve, here is a panacea for your 
disease,” she said, as she placed a white- 
winged messenger in the young girl’s hand. 

“Oh! Auntie, when did this come?” 

“By the evening mail, my dear. Your 
mother also wrote to me, telling of Guy. He 
will soon be strong, his own self again.” 

“Ah! that makes me feel so happy. It is 
such pleasant news, and I thank God for His 
goodness!” she exclaimed, a look of rever- 
ence filling the glorious eyes. 

Unsealing her letter she hastily perused its 
pages, which were from her mother and 
Charlie. As Mrs. Lowry watched her niece 
she mentally exclaimed, “She is not pretty, 
but very, very interesting. She will some 
day be an acknowledged leader of fashion.” 
Mrs. Lowry was not cold-hearted, nor even 
worldly; she was wealthy, had no children, 
therefore kept her namesake with her and 
sent her to the best of schools. She had in- 
tended taking her to Europe, and after two 
years’ travel introduce her to society as her 
heiress. Guy’s illness had frustrated her 
plans in regard to her favorite, for Nellie was 
summoned home, and would leave for the 
Crescent City the next week. 

“What will Auntie do without her little 
girl? She will be so lonesome until her child 
returns !” 


Darcy Pinckney 


109 


'‘Dear Aunt Nellie, I will miss you sadly, 
too. I will think about and write so often to 
you. My letters shall be so numerous that 
you will always have company through them ; 
and you must write to me at least once a 
week, if you can. Auntie; indeed you must.” 
And the girl kissed the tears from her aunt’s 
face, while with difficulty she restrained her 
own. 

“Is your address ready, my dear?” 

“Yes, Auntie, and I think that it suits me 
now.” 

“Then run up-stairs, dear, and see if the 
trimmings on your white dress are arranged 
to your taste. I brought it home this morn- 
ing. You will find some other articles that 
I knew that you would need, so run away, 
dear.” 

Nellie was pleased to find on her bed a 
dress of white Swiss, trimmed with flounces 
of point lace of the finest texture, with ruf- 
fles of lace around the neck and sleeves; a 
wide sash of satin, also satin slippers, and the 
daintiest pair of “kids”; but what pleased 
her most was a necklace and bracelets of 
pearl, with handsome gold locket clasps. In 
the necklace locket was a fine picture of Mrs. 
Lowry. A slip of paper contained the words, 
“Auntie’s birthday gift to Nellie.” 

“Oh! it is so exquisite!” exclaimed the 
girl. 

“Which, Nellie, the face or the pearls?” 


110 


Darcy Pinckney 


‘‘Ah ! you naughty Auntie, to ask me such 
a question! As if I did not love the dear 
face better than all the jewelry, all the pearls 
on earth!” 

“And you will not think more of the watch 
that your uncle this morning gave you ?” 

“How could I, dear Aunt? I am very 
proud, though, of my dear little Geneva. 
Ah! Auntie, don’t I know that you told 
Uncle to get it for me. I thank you both so 
much, so very much, for the lovely gifts, and 
I value more than words can tell the beauti- 
ful ring that Uncle gave me. It is so pretty, 
a golden anchor on the chameleon setting. 
Ah ! my kind Auntie ! how can I ever return 
your kindness ?” 

“By returning, as soon as Guy recovers, 
to my childless heart and home.” 

A pleasant sight it was on that morning 
to watch the gay crowd of girls entering the 
seminary, near three hundred young ladies, 
all clad in becoming costumes. Here a 
group of girls who by their expectant atti- 
tude and serious faces were eagerly awaiting 
examination to begin ; there a bevy of 
laughing ones, some few dreading the finale, 
some fearing that they might not pass with 
sufficient honor to do them credit; others 
wondering to whom would be awarded di- 
plomas; most of them speculating as to 
whom would be handed the various prizes 
that day to be given. Every heart fluttered 


Darcy Pinckney 


111 


with anxiety as the visitors began to as- 
semble, each face flushed as the gray-haired 
preceptress, attended by her assistant teach- 
ers, entered the hall. Now the busy hum of 
voices was hushed and the duties of the day 
began. In the senior class all were perfect, 
not a question left unanswered, and diplomas 
had been awarded to the graduates. The 
junior classes also passed with honor. 

The prizes had been distributed. One, a 
fine gold medal attached to an elegant gold 
chain, remained on the table. Many a girl- 
ish heart throbbed anxiously as it was no- 
ticed. “For whom?” was the unanswered 
query of many a youthful mind. 

“We are prepared to hear the valedictory 
address.” And leading a young girl to the 
dais, the aged preceptress introduced her to 
the assemblage as Miss Nellie Walsingham, 
on whom had fallen the honor of delivering 
the address of the day. 

A tide of crimson surged over the girl’s 
clear, dark face as, making a graceful bow, 
she gave the subject of her address. She 
spoke with eloquence of the usefulness of 
schools, of the rapid progress they were 
making; said that learning should go abroad 
hand in hand with religion throughout the 
land, should enter the hovel as well as the 
palace; said that the few should teach the 
many; that America had long since become 
famed for her brilliant orators and states- 


112 


Darcy Pinckney 


men, and was also noted for her smart 
women; could she not boast of many fa- 
mous women? Not that the ladies should 
compete with the gentlemen. Ah, no, wo- 
man must fill a humbler, holier sphere — that 
of home. Yet it was her right to embark on 
the seat of literature. “We can look with 
pride upon our great men,” she continued. 
“John C. Calhoun owed his nativity to the Pal- 
metto State. He was truly what in days of 
yore would have been called a gentleman of the 
old school. A planter, genial and pleasant, 
when at home; an orator, a statesman, digni- 
fied, distinguished, and eloquent when in the 
Senate Chamber. His far-seeing eye saw and 
prophesied woe for the South! The noble 
man hath passed away, his prophecy yet re- 
mains to be fulfilled. Will it ever be? No 
answer is needed, ^coming events cast their 
shadows before.’ We have other brilliant 
orators. I hope such eloquence as theirs may 
ever fill our land.” And she bowed to a part 
of the hall where a party of Senators, Repre- 
sentatives and others were grouped. Then 
turning with glistening eyes to her compan- 
ions. “Many of us,” she said, “separate here. 
We who have walked together through the 
hall of learning, and drank with each other 
from the flower-gemmed fount of knowledge 
must now separate. Our roads diverge — no 
two will travel the same path. Yet we can 
remember each other, can strive to be God- 


Darcy Pinckney 


113 


fearing, and each in her own way become a 
useful member of society. Together have 
we walked from childhood up the flowery 
stairs of girlhood. We will miss each other 
sadly, and I in my home in yonder fair city 
among the magnolias will often think of the 
many friends here, of those who were so 
kind to the little stranger who three years 
ago came to find a home, to strive for knowl- 
edge amongst them. I can never forget my 
kind teachers, the deep solicitude they have 
ever expressed for my welfare. If I have 
ever caused sorrow to any one, I humbly ask 
to be forgiven. To you, my dear teachers, 
and loved friends, I bid a long adieu.’^ Tears 
filled the girl’s eyes as she fervently uttered 
the last words. 

A thunder of applause shook the stately 
building as the maiden oration was finished. 
Her companions pressed around to grasp 
her hand; her preceptress threw a chain 
about her neck, saying, “A token of love 
from your teachers and the members of your 
class.” A flush of pleasure dyed the dark 
face as she made an impromptu, earnest 
speech of thanks to her kind friends, and 
with a graceful salutation she left the stage. 

A few days after her girlish triumph, in 
company of a few friends, she started for her 
home in the Crescent City. 


8 


CHAPTER X 


Early the same afternoon Mr. Hartly 
called. As Nina entered the drawing-room, 
the gentleman advanced toward her and 
clasped her in his arms. Springing from his 
embrace, her face covered with blushes, she 
said firmly, calmly, 

“Mr. Hartly, we must be as strangers in 
the future. You are a gentleman; treat me 
as a lady!’’ Then perceiving the effects of 
her cutting words she added more gently, 
as she clasped his hand, “I have not forgot- 
ten the peril that I was in this morning. 
And oh! I am so glad that to you I owe my 
life.” 

Leading her to a seat he said, “Forgive 
my presumption. The deep respect that I 
owed you when I considered you as my sis- 
ter was not more holy than the feeling that 
I now bear toward you.” Seating himself 
beside her he awaited the promised expla- 
nation. 

“You will not judge me harshly, Ernest; 
think leniently of me,” she began and in a 
firm, rapid voice told of the foreign letter 
and of her strange flight from their city 
home. 

“Do you for a moment think that Mrs. 
Theresa remained?” asked the young man. 


Darcy Pinckney 


115 


“She surely would not leave/’ said Nina, 
thoughtfully; “her duties were so many, her 
responsibilities so heavy.” 

“If you could leave my father, how could 
you expect her to remain when no tie bound 
her there ?” 

“Do not think me ungrateful,” and her 
hand rested lightly on his arm; “indeed, T 
thought that I did for the best. I could not 
knowingly usurp the place of another. Feel- 
ing so keenly my altered position I deemed 
it best to go away and leave no trace. I 
could not bear the idea of the taunts and 
insults at the expense of the Italian found- 
ling when the story would become known. 
Fleeing from the home of wealth where so 
long I had been an impostor, I went to 
France, from thence here, in the hope of 
meeting my mother, who is an actress^ 

But once had the young man started — it 
was when she spoke of her mother as an 
actress. A flush of pain crossed his brow, 
and passing away left it of an ashen hue. 
But as he gazed at the girl the true nobility 
of his nature, which was as haughty as her 
own, came forth, and again he renewed the 
vow made under circumstances so widely 
different; again he swore, “She shall be the 
bright star of my destiny!” 

Clasping the small soft hands he breathed 
words of love and admiration in her ear. 
“Do not stop me, Nina, you shall hear my 


116 


Darcy Pinckney 


love!’’ And more fiercely he clasped the 
small hand. “Nina, even in that first glance, 
when at Mrs. Lee’s ball our eyes for one mo- 
ment met, before I had heard your name, 
before I had spoken to you, this heart, that 
had never known the power of love, then 
felt it in all its force. Shall I say how cruelly 
I was disappointed on finding you to be my 
sister; or how, a stranger to my home, I 
inflicted self-banishment and left for Eu- 
rope? Here have I sought to forget your 
sweet face, but it has ever haunted me. 
Look when I would your eyes were gazing 
into mine, your silvery voice ever made 
music to my ear. Although this is my first, 
yet ’tis no boyish love. I have traveled 
much, have seen the beauties of all lands, the 
fairest maidens of England, the still fairer 
ones of our own America; have wandered 
under the blue skies of Italy with her love- 
liest daughters, have admired the faultless 
beauty of the Grecian ladies, have danced 
with the dark, haughty belles of courtly 
Spain, visited amongst the ladies of the 
French noblesse, become acquainted with 
bonnie Scotch and lovely Irish lassies of high 
degree — yet you are lovelier, more beautiful 
than them all. The heart that has never 
owned allegiance to woman now bows in ad- 
oration to you. My soul worships your in- 
tellect and goodness, while my heart adores 
your beauty. Be mine, Nina. What care I 


Darcy Pinckney 


117 


for your being the daughter of an actress or 
now filling the situation of governess ? I am 
no cold Englishman, who bows to ancient 
pedigree. No, I am an American. In my 
land we are bound by no such stiff-laced con- 
ventional trammels. The good and noble 
there, though poor, are always equal to the 
rich and great. Nina, darling, 1 love you 
for yourself alone. Nature formed you to 
fill the highest station in society. You have 
borne the name of Hartly. Let my father, 
who is now mourning your absence, wel- 
come your return as the bride of his son. 
Will you be my wife, Nina?” and he drew 
the blushing girl to his bosom. 

“Oh! Ernest, I admire your noble spirit, 
but I cannot forget my own circumstances — 
unknown, perhaps,” she added hurriedly, 
“unnamed.” 

“Say not a word of refusal, Nina. You 
are the one woman of my love. When this 
mystery is made clear, and you are not en- 
titled by blood or birth to my name, then I 
will claim you as my bride! Can you trust 
me, dear one? Eoving as I do, how can I 
fail to place the most implicit confidence in 
your honor and integrity?” 

“Please grant me one request,” and the dark 
eyes were turned beseechingly toward him. 

“I will grant any request that does not in- 
terfere with my happiness.” And he kissed 
the fair brow. 


118 


Darcy Pinckney 


“Then be my friend, my brother, until I 
find my mother ! If my worst fears are real- 
ized you can relinquish the nameless one.” 

“Nina, is this your confidence?” 

“Do not blame me, Ernest, dear Ernest.” 
And for the first time she raised her sweet 
sad face to his lips. “You are my friend 
now.” 

“Thanks! I will prove a faithful one. 
Your own sweet self .shall be my reward.” 
Raising the small hand he pressed it rever- 
ently, respectfully to his lips. Then bidding 
her adieu, the girl was left to happiness and 
love’s young dream. Life seemed again to 
wear a rosy hue for her. 

Two days later we find Nina preparing to 
visit the theater with her English friends, 
with Ernest Hartly as her escort. She was 
simply yet tastily attired in white watered 
silk, trimmed about the neck and sleeves 
with thread lace, a white camelia bloom in 
her dark hair. She wore no jewels, no orna- 
ments of any kind. Many an English lord 
owned to himself that night that the Ameri- 
can girl was more graceful, more bewitching 
than any of the haughty court beauties; and 
many a jeweled opera-glass was leveled at 
the lovely girl before the curtain arose. At 
last the curtain was drawn aside, the first act 
was to begin. The actress, a foreign lady, 
was announced. She came gliding gracefully 


Darcy Pinckney 


119 


over the stage and began the play, “The 
Mother Finds her First Born/' 

Nina had not seen the lady's face fully 
until she clasped the child in her arms, and 
then the tones of a sweet voice fell upon 
her ear in the strains of long-forgotten mu- 
sic, “Have I found thee? Oh! my bright- 
eyed one!” 

Nina forgot the world, all else except the 
magnificent dark-eyed woman on the stage, 
and leaning over the box she gazed as one 
entranced. The actress caught the gaze, a 
flush passed over the grand face, and stretch- 
ing her arms imploringly she cried in tones 
of thrilling love, 

“Have I found thee at last? My own, my 
little Nina!” 

An ashy paleness overspread her face, her 
arms dropped to her side. She had fainted, 
and was carried by the kind-hearted manager 
to a side room. Many of the spectators 
deemed it a part of the play, and long and 
loud were the thunders of applause that 
shook the building. 

Nina came near fainting. Twice she tried 
to move, but Ernest held her beside him. 
He had divined all, and in low tones prom- 
ised that she should see her mother. 

On recovering the actress hastily ex- 
changed her elegant dress for one of somber 
hue, then tore the costly gems from arms. 


120 


Darcy Pinckney 


neck and hair. She could not bear her little 
Nina to see her thus. 

On Mr. Hardy’s being announced she 
quickly approached him. 

“Where, oh! where, sir, is my child? Am 
I to find my daughter?” 

“Yes, madam, your daughter awaits even 
now to be folded in a mother’s arms.” 

A light step was heard, a graceful form en- 
tered the room. “My mother!” “My little 
Nina!” and they were clasped in each other’s 
arms. 

“Mother dear, did you know, before I came 
to you here, that I was your daughter?” 

“Yes, my child! I knew you the moment 
that my eyes rested on your sweet face. 
How could it be otherwise, when that dear 
face has long been graven on my heart, for 
oh ! so many weary years.” A dreary moan- 
ing sounded through the richness of the 
woman’s voice. 

“Do not grieve about the past, dear 
mother. Your Nina will never be parted 
from you any more, so do not grieve.” And 
the young girl drew her arms more closely 
about her mother’s neck. “Here are my 
friends.” And with graceful ease she intro- 
duced her mother to Mr. and Mrs. Linton, 
also to Mr. Hartly. 

Mrs. Mendoza accepted Mrs. Linton’s in- 
vitation to accompany them home. There 


Darcy Pinckney 121 

she and her daughter made preparations to 
start for Italy. 

Ernest Hartly called often to see his fair 
betrothed. He was charmed with her 
mother, she was at once so grand and 
stately, so handsome and dignified. When 
again there was another charm, she was the 
image of Nina. So while he admired, he 
learned to respect and love her as though 
she were his own mother. He now never 
thought of the life she had led — an actress 
on a public stage; she seemed the embodi- 
ment of all that was good and perfect. 

Calling on Nina one evening he found her 
sad and in tears. 

“What is the matter, my darling? Why 
these tears?” 

“Ernest, you will not wonder that I weep 
to leave England when I say that here some 
of my happiest hours have been passed.” 

“Eeave England! Are you then sorry to 
go home to America?” 

“You do not understand me, Ernest. It 
is not to America. It is to Italy that I am 
going.” 

“Nina, you cannot mean this! Calm your- 
self and tell me all.” 

As the girl finished speaking her mother 
entered the room. 

“I will go with you, dear one! This shall 
be our bridal tour!” was his impetuous ex- 
clamation. And telling of his love for the 


122 


Darcy Pinckney 


daughter, he asked the mother’s consent to 
an immediate marriage. 

A look of sadness overspread the lady’s 
face as she told the young suitor that her 
daughter must first visit Italy; that a mys- 
tery which shrouded her family name in 
gloom must first be cleared away; and then 
if he would visit Italy he could claim his 
bride. 

The man’s fine, stern face clouded. “While 
happiness is in my grasp, must I lose it?” he 
murmured. 

“We must school our hearts to patience, 
and two years are not so very long to wait,” 
said Nina, trying to be more cheerful, for her 
mother had left the room, thinking rightly 
that in the hour of trial Nina would be the 
young man’s best comforter. “Dear Ernest, 
can not we wait a year or even two years? 
Only think, poor mamma has waited for fif- 
teen years to see her baby’s face. And we 
are so young, too.” 

“Ah! Nina, you know not the torture 
that tears at my heartstrings. How can I 
bear to see you go, my beautiful one? So 
many lovers will sigh at your feet and sue 
for your hand. You will learn to forget 
America and all connected with that fair 
land.” 

“I will, though, while forgetting America, 
remember this English land, and think 
fondly of the dear American who, while here, 


Darcy Pinckney 


123 


made life so happy for me. Do you think, 
Ernest, that I could forget you now? Why 
can you not fully trust me? ” as she placed 
her small hand in his own. 

“Nina, I do trust you; for I love you as 
women are seldom loved. Look into my 
eyes, you see love unfathomable written 
there. You go from me my promised bride; 
you will not prove unfaithful; in one year I 
will visit Italy to claim you as my own.” 

“I will be true, dearest. As a token of 
my faith, wear this,” slipping on his finger 
a massive gold ring. “I have worn it for a 
long while, and you must wear it ever as a 
pledge of my undying love.” 

“Thanks, darling, and you will always 
wear the one I gave you, will never let any 
one replace it with another.” 

“You shall see it sparkling on my finger 
when we meet, and it too shall whisper of 
unbroken faith.” 

Unbroken faith! little did the young girl 
know the many days of heartache that would 
visit her before again she would see his loved 
face; little did she know that rumor after 
rumor would reach her until the faith which 
she had so fondly promised to keep would 
be almost broken. In the innocent purity of 
her heart she would never dream of the tis- 
sue of falsehood to be woven by a master 
hand, that would crush her proud spirit and 


124 


Darcy Pinckney 


cause her to doubt the constancy of the 
noble man now beside her. 

‘‘Tell papa, dear papa, that I have ever 
loved him as a daughter should. Tell him I 
would fain have heard his parting blessing 
and received a farewell kiss before I left the 
hospitable shore of dear old England. Give 
him this letter and my love, a daughter’s 
warm love.” 

Ernest watched the steamer that bore his 
love onward, until the splendid ship ap- 
peared a mere speck on the broad expanse 
of water, then sighing he turned away. The 
same evening he received a letter summon- 
ing him to Manchester, where his father lay 
ill of a malignant fever. Soon he stood by 
the sick man’s couch. The physician had 
cautioned him against betraying any emo- 
tion if his father awoke while he was in the 
room. For a while everything, even Nina, 
was forgotten as the young man gazed at the 
pallid face and wasted figure before him. 
His voice was hoarse as he asked the doctor 
if any hopes were entertained. 

“Yes,” was the reply, “if he lives through 
the night he will be out of all danger. Mean- 
while I wish to remain and watch him until 
the crisis is past. You look fatigued, so you 
had better rest. If any more dangerous 
symptoms should occur X will arouse you.” 

After a troubled sleep the young man 
awoke to learn that his father was in safety. 


Darcy Pinckney 


125 


Mr. Hartly heard with deep regret that 
Nina had departed for Italy, yet he said it 
was a duty that she owed her mother. A 
pleased smile lit up his fine face when Ernest 
told of his engagement. 

‘‘Then I will not lose my daughter after 
all. Now my aim must be to find my child. 
My golden-haired baby girl.” 

“You forget, mon pere, the little lady may 
have grown to be as tall and stately as my 
own Nina,” and the young man smiled. 

“And you say that Nina left a copy of the 
Italian lady’s letter?” 

“Yes, father; and I think that when Mrs. 
Theresa absconded that she carried the let- 
ter with her.” 

“How blind I was not to have thought of 
this. I would like very much even now to 
see a copy of that letter.” 

They were disappointed on arriving at 
Liverpool to hear that no steamer would 
leave for America under two days. 

“I am heartily sick of England; never 
wanted to see America so badly in my life !” 
exclaimed the elder man. 

“All places are alike to me,” replied the 
son, “whether the vine-clad hills of Erance, 
the foggy shores of England, or the bright 
skies of fair America. My heart will wander 
to Italy where my love has gone. But come, 
father, we will go to the theater. Lord 
Harry Neville has engaged a box and wishes 


126 


Darcy Pinckney 


US to join his party; he is a splendid fellow 
and an old friend of mine. Or if you do not 
feel well enough to go I will remain with 
you.” 

‘^Oh, no, I feel perfectly well, and prefer 
being alone, as I have several business let- 
ters to write to-night, and I hope that both 
Lord Neville and yourself may spend a 
pleasant time.” 

Ernest gazed long and admiringly at the 
circle of English beauties, amofig whom 
were numbered the wealthiest of England’s 
aristocratic daughters. Yet he deemed that 
not one in that bright parterre of breathing 
flowers could compare with his Italian lily. 
Many were the nods of recognition and bows 
of welcome received by Lord Neville; many 
were the opera-glasses leveled by dainty 
hands at the handsome American. 

“Look this way, Ernest! Is not yonder 
lady as lovely as an angel?” 

“Yes, she is certainly very lovely, as beau- 
tiful as a poet’s dream of love,” replied Er- 
nest Hartly as he smiled at the boyish im- 
petuosity of the young lord. “Methinks I 
have seen that fair face before.” 

“Perchance you have. Her face is not one 
when once seen easily to be forgotten, and 
her name is equally as pretty as herself. It 
is the Lady Flora Villiers.” 

Who could look upon the angelic face and 
even for a moment harbor the suspicion that 


Darcy Pinckney 


127 


beneath the lovely exterior was hid a heart 
as dark as midnight? Who could imagine 
that the sweet smile resting on her coral lips 
could be quickly changed to a sneer of con- 
temptuous scorn, or who believe that those 
same coral lips had long been trained to 
falsehood and deceit, or that the mild light 
of the bright blue eyes at times changed to 
a mocking coldness, at other times glared 
with cruel, vindictive wrath. Like the beau- 
tiful hyena, she was lovely and graceful, ever 
on the alert, ever ready for a spring, watch- 
ing her victims with the same wary caution, 
then gloating over the pain she made them 
feel. Yet, notwithstanding all this, the 
Lady Llora held a high position in society 
and counted her lovers by the score ; for she 
was one of the wealthiest among the ladies 
belonging to Queen Victoria’s Court, and 
was toasted as the most beautiful. 

Lord Neville looked in consternation at 
the calm composure of his friend. “Why, 
Ernest !” he exclaimed, “you used to go into 
ecstasies over a lovely face !” 

“My boyish days are past. Yet, Harry, I 
still admire a pretty face. Lady Elora has 
the beauty of the wily serpent which lures its 
victims to destruction only to watch their 
dying pangs.” 

“Ah ! Ernest, you who do not know Elora 
Villiers would only judge her thus.” 

Ernest Hartly sat for some time buried in 


Darcy Pinckney 


12 8 

deep thought. Should he put the young 
nobleman upon his guard? No, he only ad- 
mired, perhaps would never love her. ^ And 
as Ernest gazed at the witching face with its 
clustering curls of golden hair, forming such 
an exquisite frame-work for the glorious pic- 
ture, he could scarcely realize that the soul 
of a demon slumbered, that she had the vin- 
dictiveness and malice of Lucretia Borgia. 
Again he heard her farewell words to him 
during his last stay in Italy : ^'Ernest Hartly, 
I am your enemy, and will yet find it in my 
power to work you woe. / hide my time, but 
remember that sooner or later I will have 
revenge !” He still heard the mocking fierce- 
ness of her tone, could see the steely glitter 
of her clear blue eyes as she looked when she 
had svvorn to ruin him. He had baffled all 
of her attempts at a reconciliation. This 
was the first time that he had seen her since 
she had sworn the vendetta against him. As 
he gazed at her exquisite face he deemed 
that Poe’s Ligeia could not have been more 
lovely, and wondered not at the complete 
mastery she was said to hold over the most 
brilliant and intellectual men belonging to the 
British Court. A smile of contempt flitted 
over the young man’s handsome face as he no- 
ticed the infatuated gaze of Lord Neville. 

‘‘There, Harry, you have looked at Lady 
Elora long enough to show to every sensible 
person here that she is your lady-love. 


Darcy Pinckney 


12 9 

When your foolish dream is over, or rudely 
broken, come to me in fair America and you 
shall have the loveliest daughter in the Cres- 
cent City. 

The young man gaily accepted the offer. 
‘‘You know though it is when my dream is 
broken — and that will never be, it will last 
with my life.” 

Only a few moments had elapsed after the 
young men left the hotel before a waiter an- 
nounced a visitor. 

“Sent he no card?” asked Mr. Hartly. 

“No, sir; he said to tell you that an old 
friend wished to see you.” 

“Then ask him up.” 

A handsome young man entered the room. 
Bowing, he introduced himself as George 
Travers. 

“Ah!” exclaimed the gentleman, grasp- 
ing the young man’s hand, “this is indeed a 
pleasure, my dear boy. Five years have 
greatly changed you. I am very, very glad 
to see you.” 

“And will be more so when I unfold my 
news.” 

Seating themselves the gentlemen con- 
versed long and earnestly. The younger 
man drew from his pocket a small package 
and placed it in the hands of the elder man, 
saying, 

“This relates to your long-lost daughter. 

9 


130 


Darcy Pinckney 


I met Phil Walker two days ago, bound for 
I cannot say where. We had roomed to- 
gether at the hotel and I found this package 
in our room after he had left. I opened it 
to satisfy myself whether it was worth the 
trouble to take care of it until I could get 
an opportunity to send it to the wild, careless 
fellow. I became perfectly bewildered with 
the contents. I accidentally learned that you 
were here; and you are the proper owner.” 

^^If it relates to my child, even in the most 
remote degree, I am a thousand times your 
debtor.” 

“Not in the least, sir!” was the frank ex- 
clamation. “I will now bid you good-night.” 

“Stay longer, George ; remain with us for 
the night.” 

“I would with pleasure, but urgent busi- 
ness calls me away.” Shaking hands warmly 
the gentlemen separated. 

With an eager though trembling hand, 
Mr. Hartly opened the package. There was 
a thick, yellow-looking manuscript; a sunny 
curl of golden hair, soft and silky as a baby’s ; 
next a picture painted on ivory, of a little 
girl apparently three years old. The face 
was pale, eyes of a deep soft brown, and a 
perfect halo of sunlit hair around the child- 
ish head. The father pressed his lips to the 
pure infantile face. “My baby! My little 
one ! How very much do I wish to fold you 
to my heart. I have seen two whom this an- 


Darcy Pinckney 


131 


gelic baby face resembles. Nina with her 
dark eyes and hair has features like this, and 
Miss Hume resembles this enough to be its 
original.” Then he turned to the manuscript 
and read. It ran thus : 

“Mr. Hartly, dear, kind sir: Forgive me 
for my wicked deception, for my treachery. 
My heart was good and innocent until she, 
the dark Italian woman, came. You were 
away, not expected to return for years. I 
was sitting in the public square one evening, 
playing with Eugenia, when a woman lead- 
ing a child of the same size, and, strange to 
say, the very features of my little charge, 
stopped and entered into conversation with 
me. She appeared to be a pleasant person, 
and liking her looks and manner I promised 
to meet her there the same night. It was at 
that meeting that she unfolded to me her 
design. She would give me money enough 
to go back to my northern home, where I 
could marry the boy whom I loved. She 
would send me money every six months (and 
under fear of death I was not to betray her) 
if I would let the children be exchanged. I 
was stunned for a while, but so homesick 
for my native place was I getting that I lulled 
to sleep the whisperings of conscience that 
had troubled me. Our plans were quickly 
formed and the children were exchanged. 
The little Italian’s clothes were put upon 
your child, while the clothes of the little 


132 


Darcy Pinckney 


Clara Eugenia, as we sometimes called her, 
were arranged about the form of the Italian 
infant, or Nina as her nurse called her. The 
woman’s plan was to get herself installed as 
nurse (as I would be called to go to my 
northern home) then to take the child to 
the country, there we would make the ex- 
change good. She would satisfy the other 
servants that the child had become badly 
tanned from exposure. She also said that 
she could prepare an ointment that would 
give Nina’s hair a golden-hued cast. I was 
to take my charge, your delicate little daugh- 
ter, and leave her in Mobile at the house of 
some respectable person. I left her, arrayed 
in her dress of crimson, at the door of a gen- 
tleman who had graduated in law and medi- 
cine, whom I was told had lately lost a little 
daughter. The number of the residence, as 
well as the name of the physician, I have 
forgotten. Your little girl wore around her 
neck a gold chain and locket, the picture of 
yourself in the latter. I remember well how 
she cried until we let her wear it. The in- 
closed paper will state what clothing the 
child had on when I left her.” 

The letter ran on, begging his forgiveness, 
stating that Mr. Walker had assured her that 
she would be forgiven if she would only 
make a true confession. The writing, in the 
same hand, on the smaller paper, a list of the 
child’s clothing, was yellow and faded with 


Darcy Pinckney 


133 


age : “Dress of scarlet silk trimmed with 
gold. Black cap and scarlet feather, black 
shoes ornamented with crimson rosettes and 
golden stars.” A postscript blotted and 
blurred with tears was annexed. Yet both 
postmark and date, as well as the name of 
the writer, had been torn off. 

“There is one bright ray left to gladden 
my life,” he murmured. “Yet amid what 
dark clouds is it hid. I will, with the help 
of Him who watches o’er the fatherless, 
pierce through the gloom and find my lost 
lamb, my precious little one. God grant 
that she is as innocent and guileless as when 
taken from her home.” And kneeling there 
he prayed long and earnestly in behalf of 
his child. Arising from his knees he once 
more gazed at the picture. “Ah !” he 
mused, “it is very like Eugenia, or Nina I 
should say ; yet she is dark while this is very 
fair. How strange that I have never until 
now found out the clever deception prac- 
ticed upon me; but then I was away for so 
long a time — over three years — traveling in 
Italy, and even then the foreign ruby was 
being exchanged for my own little pearl. 
How that poor mother’s heart must have 
ached ! The original must be very like 
Nina,” still holding the picture. “No, more 
like Miss Hume — yes, much more like Miss 
Hume. Strange, passing strange, that those 
brown eyes will ever haunt me thus.” 


134 


Darcy Pinckney 


On the return of his son he made him ac- 
quainted with the news he had received. 

“We will start for America to-morrow!” 
exclaimed the young man, “and at once be- 
gin a search for my sister. She must be very 
lovely,” he continued, gazing at the minia- 
ture; “and I know as good as lovely. The 
face is too pure for the mind to be otherwise. 
Our home will be a pleasant one when we 
find my sister.” 

“Yes,” added Mr. Hartly, “and more so 
when you bring my other daughter to share 
a home with us.” 

Much to their discomfort two days elapsed 
before they were able to leave England. 
The last night of their stay Ernest again vis- 
ited the theater, again saw the lovely face of 
the Eady Flora Villiers. She had seen and 
recognized Ernest, had also noticed the ex- 
treme hauteur of his manner, and she ac- 
knowledged to herself that he was the most 
splendid-looking man in that vast assem- 
blage; and more than ever did she sigh to 
see him at her feet, and mentally she swore 
that this should be. On this night her escort 
was Lord Harry Neville, and in her artful 
manner she turned the conversation on the 
subject of friendship, well knowing that he 
would speak of his friend ; for she was aware 
that the young men were intimate, although 
Lord Neville did not know that she and Er- 
nest had met and become acquainted in Italy. 


Darcy Pinckney 


135 


He considered them as utter strangers to 
each other. 

“Tell me, Tord Harry, among your many 
acquaintances who are here, — the gentlemen, 
of course, — do you think that you can hnd one 
true friend?” 

“Yes, Lady Flora, I would be unhappy did 
I think otherwise ; for instance, there is 
Henri St. Cloud.” 

“Who ! the witty young Frenchman — the 
elegant Marquis?” 

“Yes, he has proved to be a true friend.” 

“Oh!” laughed the lady, “I am speaking 
now of disinterested friendship and we all 
know that it is to his own interest to court 
your notice, to gain you as his friend, even 
for the sake of the love he bears your beau- 
teous sister Maude. So, my Lord, you must 
name another.” 

“Percy Rivers.” 

“He will not pass muster, he is all devo- 
tion to your cousin Lucy Graham. In confi- 
dence, I am to be first bridesmaid. So name 
some one else, if you please,” laughed the 
lovely girl. 

“Well, although I name him last, still in 
my heart he comes first — yonder American, 
Ernest Hartly.” 

“Ah ! I have heard the name before. How 
long will he remain in England?” 

“He leaves for America to-morrow.” 

A flush of surprise mantled her exquisite 


136 


Darcy Pinckney 


face. Would he not pay the slightest tribute 
to her charms? she mused, and pressed her 
pearly teeth upon her lips to check the angry 
words ere they found utterance. 

“You say that he goes away to-morrow?” 

“Yes, Lady Flora; and I would bear him 
company, but there is one in my own land 
from whom I cannot part.” 

Before she could reply the conversation 
was interrupted and not again resumed. 

Early the next morning Lord Neville vis- 
ited his friends before they left England. 

“You promise that when you become 
heartbroken you will come to me?” queried 
Ernest. 

“Yes,” laughed the young lord, “I prom- 
ise to come when I conclude that my heart is 
breaking; and, Ernest, if that time ever 
comes I will hold you to your promise of be- 
stowing upon me the fairest flower in your 
fair city — your own fair sister, perchance.” 

“I hope soon to see my sister in my fa- 
ther’s house. If you come and she becomes 
the flower of your choice I will not forget 
that my word is passed.” 

“All right. A good voyage to you both; 
and let me hear from you soon.” 

“With pleasure,” replied Ernest; and the 
friends parted, the one to speed with his in- 
valid father to America, the other to hasten 
to bask in the smiles of the false Lady Flora. 

A perfumed note was handed to Ernest 


Darcy Pinckney 


137 


Hartly a few moments prior to his depart- 
ure. It was from the Lady Flora, and was 
delicately worded, delicately expressed. She 
wrote hoping that he would visit her before 
he went away. It was a note that any friend 
might write, any friend receive. Ernest 
wondered what could be the fair writer’s de- 
sign, and almost concluded to return the 
note; but no, he thought it would be too 
impolite, so he wrote declining the invitation 
so kindly sent to him. 

Ah! Ernest Hartly, could you have seen 
the smile of satisfaction resting on the fair 
face as your note was perused, or heard the 
low musical laugh, you might well have 
thought that the writer of the note sent to 
yourself had some deep design — aye, a 
treacherous one at that. 

‘‘Aha! Ernest Hartly, with all your sense 
you are no match for woman. The haughty 
fool,’' she murmured, “I wonder if in reality 
he deemed that my note was only a ruse to 
bring him hither, to win a visit from him. 
He will learn better than this ere another 
year goes by. If I cannot be the mistress of 
his happiness, I will be the dread arbitress 
of his fate. Little does Neville, my one true 
lover, think that I am using him as a tool 
with which, when ready, to destroy the peace 
of his dearest friend. Yet why cannot I love 
Lord Neville? He is loved by all. Mabel 
Seymour is almost dying for him. Lucy 


138 


Darcy Pinckney 


Montague and Nannie Grafton would either 
accept him quickly. He is gay, witty, hand- 
some and generous to a fault, and that great- 
est of earthly powers, — gold, — is his in 
abundance. Why do I not accept and at 
once link my fate to his? I am beautiful,” 
she murmured, and stepping in front of a 
full-length mirror long and earnestly she 
scanned the form and features there por- 
trayed. ‘‘Yes, I am the loveliest of all those 
courtly dames who throng our royal lady’s 
halls, yet I will not wed Harry Neville, al- 
though he is very handsome and his fortune 
equals my own. I live for but one purpose, 
and will immolate my heart on the altar of 
revenge.” And placing the note away care- 
fully, she left the room. 

The same evening she received a visit 
from Lord Neville. 

“Your friend started this morning on his 
homeward voyage?” she queried. 

“Yes, much to my sorrow he would go.” 

“Perchance it is a ladylove who calls him 
thither.” 

“Ah! no, he has gone home to search for 
a sister who was stolen in her infancy, or 
rather exchanged; but recently have they 
found out the deception. Ernest intends fol- 
lowing up the clue until she is found. The 
strangest part is this, the young girl left at 
Mr. Hartly’s is an Italian and exquisitely 
lovely. She is the daughter of an actress 


Darcy Pinckney 


139 


and has become the betrothed bride of my 
friend. In one year he goes to Italy to claim 
her as his own. She is the image of his sis- 
ter, only she is very dark, while Miss Hartly 
is fair. You have seen the foreign actress. 
The daughter is the mother’s image, her 
second self, and is equally as magnificent and 
regal.” 

“She must be very, very beautiful,” re- 
plied the girl. 

“I did not come here to speak about 
others, but to plead my own cause, dear 
Tady Flora,” he exclaimed passionately, 
clasping the small white hand. “I love you 
devotedly, and have come to lay this love 
at your feet and to sue for yours in return.” 

For one moment did the cold, haughty 
woman struggle with her evil angel, to do a 
good act by at once rejecting the handsome 
suitor at her feet; but no, she could not dis- 
card him yet, she might need him in the fu- 
ture. Until that time she would keep him 
enthralled in the flowery chains of love. So 
she allowed him to retain the clasp of her 
soft hand, while she told in her musical voice 
of a promise not to marry under two years. 

“I will serve for you seven years, aye even 
as Jacob served for Rachel — or a lifetime 
if need be.” But the warm accents of love, 
so deeply tinged with romantic feeling, 
touched not the girl’s cold heart. “In the 


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Darcy Pinckney 


two years,” he added, ‘^may I call this hand 
my own?” 

“Wait and see,” she said with a smile. 
“I give you hope. Is not that enough for 
the most ardent lover to feed his fancy on?” 
Then with a show of generosity — it suited 
her purpose better — she said, “I will let you 
bind yourself by no promise. Not one shall 
you make. You shall only be fettered by 
your love.” 

The young nobleman was not fully satis- 
fied, and after taking his leave thought long 
of all she had said. “Why did she not en- 
gage herself to me?” was the query upper- 
most in his mind. “Can she be holding me 
off in hopes of winning some one else? Ah! 
no, she is too pure, too guileless for that. 
In two years I will claim her as my own. 
Yes, hope shall be my talisman till then.” 

And she, did she for an instant cast one 
thought upon the true heart with which she 
was toying? No; things of more impor- 
tance claimed her attention, — for she was 
engaged in planning a way to wreak ven- 
geance on the head of Ernest Hartly. 


CHAPTER XI 


Nellie Walsingham arrived at home to find 
her brother rapidly improving in health. 
The years of their separation had made a 
vast change in the young girl’s appearance. 
She had grown so much that her mother 
could scarcely realize that the tall, stylish- 
looking young lady was the little girl who 
had left her years before. 

“Mamma dear, please let me see brother 
Guy!” eagerly exclaimed the girl. “And 
where are Charlie and Lena?” 

“The little ones are at play, dear! Miss 
Hume had a headache. So I persuaded her 
to give them a holiday. We will first visit 
Guy and then call the children.” 

Guy was asleep, and the girl seated herself 
beside the bed, fearing to disturb him by 
even pressing her rosy lips to his. 

“How pale he is,” she said, and lovingly 
scanned his handsome face — Guy awoke and 
looked with a startled gaze at the stately 
girl. 

“Brother, do you not know me?” she ex- 
claimed, and sprang to his side, and pressed 
kisses on his thin face. I have so longed to 
come home, dear, that I might wait on and 
help to nurse you; have so yearned to see 
you,” and tears filled the large dark eyes. 


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Darcy Pinckney 


Clasping his arms closely around her neck, 
Guy said, “Sister, I am glad that you have 
come. I have looked and waited long for 
your coming. Don’t leave me until I get 
well, and not even then. You have grown 
so much, sweet sister. I am so glad, Nellie, 
that you are here; and to-day is your birth- 
day.” 

“Yes, brother, and don’t you wish me 
many happy returns?” 

“Yes, dear sister, I hope that your path 
through life may be strewn with roses. May 
the sun of happiness always shine brightly 
over your head ; may the dark clouds of ad- 
versity never checker your pathway; and 
may love, joy and happiness be your con- 
stant attendants.” 

“Thanks, dearest brother.” 

“Oh, sister! dear darling sister Nellie!” 
and Charlie threw his arms about her neck, 
while glad tears from his bright blue eyes 
stained her face. 

“How tall you have grown, little brother !” 

“Yes, sister, and Miss Clara says that I 
am tall enough to take you out walking.” 

“You must tell me about Miss Clara. But 
here is my pet,” and the girl hastened to the 
fairylike child. 

“Sis Nell, I’se so glad you’s come,” and 
the little dimpled hands lovingly caressed 
the swarthy face. “Mamma says you’ll love 


Darcy Piuckney 


143 


buddie Charlie and me ’cause we is good 
children. Will you, sis Nell?” 

“Of course sister will. How could she 
help loving two such little darlings? You 
are so affectionate and gentle and Charlie 
improves so fast that I am sure he is stu- 
dious. You write such nice letters, Charlie, 
and did you read my long letters all by your 
little self?” she asked in a playful tone. 

“Yes, sister, and Lena can read in her 
primer and count one hundred, and has 
spelt past “baker” in her spelling book.” 

“Lena is a smart little girl, too, and must 
learn quickly. When will papa be home?” 

“He will come to-morrow. He was going 
to bring you home but was called away on 
business,” answered Charlie. 

“Who came home with you, sister?” 

“Mr. Lascelles and his daughter Mollie.” 

“I wish I had been well enough to go after 
you.” 

“Don’t grieve about that, dear.” 

“When is Aunt Nellie coming?” 

“As soon as Uncle gets well enough to 
travel, they will go to Europe but will come 
and spend some time with us before they go. 
And now, Charlie, tell me about Miss Clara, 
of whom every one seems so fond.” The girl 
laughed genially and while listening to the 
boy’s tale about his loved teacher, glanced 
archly at Guy and played with Lena’s golden 


144 


Darcy Pinckney 


hair, who, childlike, had perched herself in 
her sister’s lap. 

^^Is she so very beautiful, Guy?” 

'‘Yes, Nellie, and just as good as she is 
lovely. You shall judge for yourself.” And 
he whispered to her of his engagement and 
begged her to give the young governess a 
sister’s love. 

"Yes, dear, I shall love her very much,” 
and she gently kissed his brow. 

Leaving the children with Guy she sought 
the young teacher. 

"Please do not let me disturb you. Miss 
Clara. I have just left Guy. Mamma tells 
me that you are suffering with headache, so 
I have come to make myself serviceable.” 
And seating herself on the bedside, with 
a motherly kindness in her manner, she drew 
the aching head to her lap, and tenderly 
bathed the throbbing brow, all the while 
talking in low soothing tones. 

"Mamma would have come but I told her 
that we would not need an introduction. Do 
you know, I have often thought the best 
friends were those who became acquainted 
without a formal presentation to each other. 
I had promised my brother to love you very 
much and this glimpse of your sweet face 
tends to make me renew my promise. 

"Here is mamma !” she said as Mrs. Wal- 
singham entered the room. "Mamma, 
Clara says that her head is nearly well. You 


Darcy Pinckney 


145 


see I am a good nurse. Papa always said so 
and he was right.” 

“I am pleased that you have relieved 
Clara, my dear, for she has suffered much. 
But you had better remain quiet a while 
longer, dear Clara. Guy says that after a 
while you must both come down stairs. He 
has managed to reach the parlor and is now 
reclining on the sofa.” 

The same night the little family gathered 
in the sitting-room. 

‘T do wish that papa would come. I am 
so anxious to see him,” and as if in accord- 
ance with her wish Mr. Walsingham entered 
the room. 

“Papa, dear papa !” she cried, and lovingly 
embraced him. 

“So at last my little daughter has come 
home?” 

“Yes, papa! and how do you like me?” 

“I must say that I feel very proud of my 
dignified daughter,” and he gazed fondly at 
the dark face. 

“And so my little girl was awarded the 
highest honors?” 

“Yes! papa, here is the medal, awarded 
by my teachers.” And she unclasped the 
golden chain and handed the locket to him. 

“A nice prize,” he exclaimed, and read the 
flattering words inscribed on it. Then fondly 


146 


Darcy Pinckney 


stroking her dark hair he said, ‘‘I am very 
proud of you, my daughter.” 

The tea bell rang and the family sat down 
to a delicate repast of light biscuits and but- 
ter, wafers and tea cakes, orange marmalade, 
and strawberries and cream. 

“Do these berries grow in our garden, 
mamma ?” 

“Yes, dear, and they are the finest in the 
city. The marmalade is some of my own 
making. I knew you were fond of it.” 

“Thanks, dear mamma. I promise to do 
it justice.” 

“Are you as fond of tea as you used to 
be?” asked the lady, pouring some into one 
of the tiny china cups. 

“Yes, mamma, just as fond as ever. I love 
tea as much as Lena loves sugar plums.” 

“You have never learned to drink cof- 
fee?” 

“Yes! I like it in cold weather. Why, 
mamma, some of my schoolmates would 
never taste it. They said it would ruin their 
complexions. I used to be so amused at 
them.” 

After the company had reassembled in the 
parlor, Mr. Walsingham drew a small velvet 
case from his pocket. “Here is your gift, 
my daughter,” he said ; “may you be always 
as happy as you have been to-day.” As he 
spoke he clasped a beautiful diamond brace- 
let on her arm. 


Darcy Pinckney 


147 


“Oh, how exquisite!” she cried, as the 
rich gems flashed beneath the glare of the 
chandelier; “let me kiss you for the precious 
gift, papa.” 

“Sissie, here is my gift,” said Lena, and 
she placed a package in her lap. 

“Guess what it is first, sister,” said 
Charlie. 

“A fancy box of bon bons.” 

“No; you did not guess right,” laughed 
the child. 

She was delighted to find a large double 
locket containing pictures of Charlie and 
Lena. 

“Here is a book, the good book, my gift 
to you, sister. I chose it myself,” he said, as 
he handed her a beautifully bound Bible 
with massive gold clasps. 

“Yes; and he wrote your name in it him- 
self, didn’t you, buddie Charlie?” 

“Yes, little sissie.” 

“You are very thoughtful, little ones; and 
sister did not forget either of you. I have a 
trunk full of presents for my little pets.” 

Guy gave her a handsome rosewood 
work-box. The lid contained a tiny looking- 
glass curtained with rose-colored silk looped 
back with silver cord and tassels. There 
glittered the many implements of a lady’s 
workbox. In the silver case was a dainty 
gold thimble. There also were scissors, a 
bodkin, a jeweled needle case, and many 


148 Darcy Pinckney 

other pretty articles both for ornament and 
use. 

'‘Does it suit your fastidious taste, 
Nellie?’’ 

“Yes, Guy; how could it fail to do so, 
when it is so beautiful?” 

“Wear this for mother’s sake, dear child;” 
and the lady slipped a broad band of gold 
upon one of the girl’s slender fingers. 

“Forever, mamma,” she said, smiling 
through her tears. “You are all so kind, 
and I am so happy.” 

“May you ever remain as happy,” was the 
unuttered prayer breathed by the fond 
hearts gathered about the graceful girl. 

Good-nights were said, good-night kisses 
given, and the little ones went to bed to dream 
about the dear sister who had returned to 
them. 

Early next morning Nellie distributed to 
them their various gifts. Several beautiful 
books, a set of soldiers, a bag of marbles, a 
pocket-knife, a box of loto, a puzzle, and a 
pair of boots, red tops in which boys delight. 

Charlie, however, valued the puzzle — a 
geographical one — and the books more than 
anything else. 

“Here is a baby for you, Lena,” and she 
handed the child a large wax doll tastily 
dressed. 

“Oh! it has pretty black eyes and hair 


Darcy Pinckney 


149 


like yours, sissie, and I’ll name it Nellie,” ex- 
claimed the delighted child. 

“Here are a set of dishes and a box of fur- 
niture for your doll house, a Noah’s ark, and 
a pretty book for Miss Lena.” Then turn- 
ing to her mother and handing her a dress 
of purple silk, she said, “This is your favor- 
ite color. I easily guessed your size and 
made it up for you. Aunt Nellie sent you 
the sables, and uncle the books,” and she 
placed several beautifully bound volumes, on 
the center-table. “I know the latter will be 
a treat, you are so fond of reading.” 

For her father she had fancy slippers — her 
own work — a pretty silk purse, the “Life of 
John C. Calhoun,” also a portrait of the dis- 
tinguished South Carolina statesman. 

For Guy there was a fine portfolio filled 
with paper and envelopes, a package of 
novels and magazines, a handsome chi- 
bouque, a pair of slippers, cap and dressing 
gown. 

“Thank you, dear sister, these will suit me 
admirably,” and he looked at the slippers 
and unfolded the gown. “Just the thing for 
a sick-room. I think I will play the role of 
invalid a while longer. How thoughtful and 
kind you are, Nellie.” 

“Not half as much as you have all been to 
me,” replied the young girl. 

Two weeks later Nellie’s birdlike laugh 
is hushed. Charlie Sports about the rooms 


150 


Darcy Pinckney 


no more. Business cares cannot keep Mr. 
Walsingham from home. Little Lena, the 
golden-haired child, the pet of the house, 
had been stricken down with scarlatina. 
Nothing but the moans of the little sufferer 
could be heard. In Nellie’s room — for the 
child was taken ill suddenly at night while 
sleeping with her sister — the little form was 
stretched on a bed. Nellie’s tears fell thick 
and fast as she bent over the little one, 
knowing that her pet was in such agony and 
that she could not assuage her pain. She 
, bathed the aching head with cool water. On 
the fifth night the fever seemed almost to 
burn the child, her little lips were parched, 
and she would cry out with thirst, “Please, 
sis Nell, give me some water, Lena wants 
some water.” The goblet was placed to the 
child’s lips. “Oh! it is so cool, so nice. 
There, I feel better now.” But again her 
face flushed and her mind wandered. “My 
doll, buddie Charlie ; we will take her riding 
now. Oh! I wish sis Nell would come 
home. I want to say my prayers to sister 
Nell.” And the child dozed off into a 
troubled slumber. She was unconscious a 
portion of the time and delirious every few 
hours. She awoke after a few hours’ sleep, 
but still the fever raged fiercely. “Oh ! 
some more water, mamma ; let me go home 
where the cool, clear water is.” 

“You are at home, my darling,” replied 


Darcy Pinckney 


151 


the agonized mother; ‘‘you are at home, my 
precious child.’’ 

“No! no! to my other home; to my 
Father in Heaven. Is there cool water 
there, mamma? I’m so tired here and so 
thirsty.” 

Nellie gave the patient sufferer water, and 
again her mind wandered. “No one will go 
with me but brother; he will drink of the 
water there; even Charlie won’t go. Miss 
Clara says we know our lessons; let us go 
and play, Charlie.” And again she dozed off 
to sleep. 

The ninth night had come, and still the 
fever had not abated. The doctor said that 
a change would take place about midnight. 
With what anxious hearts did that small 
family circle draw around the sick couch of 
the household darling. Nellie had wept until 
her eyes were swollen. She looked wan and 
sick, for she had never left her little sister to 
the care of others. The doctor feared she 
would be ill, and advised her to take some 
rest. Her only reply was, “No; I cannot 
leave her, she will miss me, I am not weary;” 
and she would busy herself anew about the 
little one. 

The sun was sinking when Lena tried to 
rise. “Lie still, my darling,” said Nellie, in 
low, soothing tones. 

“Oh! sis Nell, it is bedtime. Please let 
me say my prayers.” 


152 


Darcy Pinckney 


Before they could stop her she began the 
sweet prayer for infants, ‘‘Now I lay me 
down to sleep,” and said it to the end. 

“Sis Nell, did our Father who art in 
Heaven hear me?” 

“Yes, darling, and now you must be very 
still.” 

The fond parents hoped that death would 
pass her by but it was only for a little while 
that they were deluded by the vain hope. 

It was the strength imparted by the rust- 
ling of the angels’ wings that was upon the 
child when she prayed to the Father she 
soon would see. 

Nellie felt that death would soon be their 
visitor. She knew that the small circle would 
be still smaller, and she murmured, as she 
gazed at the rapidly paling face of the dying 
child, “Oh! death, canst thou not spare this 
little one and seek some fairer bud to adorn 
the gardens of Heaven, some other gem to 
place in the Saviour’s crown?” And again 
she murmured, “Forgive me, good Lord, 
pardon my selfishness in wishing to retain 
this home gift.” 

The mother watched the small, fair face. 
“Doctor,” she said, “is there no hope for my 
baby, my pet?” 

“Mrs. Walsingham, I cannot bid you hope. 
The crisis is near. She is so delicate that I 
fear the worst.” 

“Oh! how can I give her up? My cher- 


Darcy Pinckney 


152 


ished pet, my youngest one, my own poor 
little baby girl.” 

“My own dear wife,” said Mr. Walsing- 
ham, as his arms stole about her waist, “our 
little one was only a precious loan to grace 
for a while our earthly home. When God 
calls for His own we must not murmur.” 

“How can I live without ever again hear- 
ing the prattle of her sweet voice?” 

“We must try to bear up,” and his tone 
was even more tender than in the old sweet 
trysting time. 

Guy’s easy chair was wheeled nearer to 
the bed. Charlie stood by his knee and 
watched with earnest love the pure childish 
face. 

“Brother, will my little sister get well 
again ?” 

“No, Charlie,” and the young man’s voice 
grew husky with emotion as he drew the 
gentle boy more closely to him. “No, 
Charlie, you will have to learn to play 
alone.” 

“Will sissie go up in the beautiful blue 
sky? And won’t we meet her there?” 

“Yes, darling, but on earth we will see her 
no more.” And bowing his face in his hands 
he wept. 

“Don’t cry, buddie Guy, I will beg God to 
let sister stay with us.” And kneeling there 
the sobbing child clasped his hands while his 
lips moved in prayer. 


154 


Darcy Pinckney 


Ah ! fair boy, the awaiting angel Azrael is 
not to be cheated of his victim. He already 
hovers over the couch. The golden hair of 
the little sleeper, who so soon will sleep to 
awake no more, is tossed from the waxen 
brow; the crimson flush has died out from 
the fair face ; the long lashes shade the 
dreamy eyes. Can this be death? No, the 
lips are parted now and gently murmur, 
‘‘Mamma dear, good-night. Papa, brother 
Guy, I am going home. Charlie, buddie 
Charlie” — and one little hand felt for her 
loved playmate — “don’t let Nell, my baby 
Nell, be naughty.” 

She opens her eyes and sees the loved 
face of her sister bending over her. 

“Sis Nell, I’m so tired;” and the little 
arms closed around the young girl’s neck, 
the little head, with its wealth of golden hair, 
nestled close to the young girl’s bosom. 

“Please sing to me, sister.” And although 
tears choked her voice Nellie sang a hymn, 
the child’s favorite, “I would not live 
always.” 

Once again the child spoke. “It is so 
sweet, sissie, and Lena is tired now. Kiss 
me, sissie.” 

The little head dropped forward wearily 
while a bright ray from the rising sun shone 
through the open window and for a moment 
rested on the head of the dead child. Yes, 
the pure little spirit had passed away, borne 


Darcy Pinckney 


155 


aloft by angels' wings, to the God who gave 
it. The sun-ray floated over the curly head 
of the sinless sleeper and then the room was 
as before the heavenly visitor came. 

Low sobs broke the stillness as Nellie 
placed the little head upon the pillow. 

“The God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob 
has taken our little lamb into the fold above 
and we must bow beneath the rod," she said. 
Then exhausted nature gave way and she lay 
unconscious for hours. 

“It is better so, poor child and the 
mother knelt and bathed the girl’s forehead ; 
while gentle Clara Hume 'arrayed the little 
form in the habilaments of the grave. 

A group of sad-faced, weeping friends 
stood around the coflin to take a last fond 
look at the dead child. The soft hair was 
brushed from the waxen forehead and lay in 
burnished golden curls on the satin pillow. 
The long dark lashes rested so lovingly on 
the fair face that one would almost think 
that in very truth she was not dead, but 
sleeping. A smile rested on the angelic 
face; the tiny hands were folded over the 
still heart; in the right hand lay a bunch of 
white violets, shedding a delicate perfume 
over the narrow bed. 

“Oh my darling, it is hard, very hard, to 
give you up!" cried the agonized mother, as 
she tottered forward and passionately kissed 
the childish face. “Oh ! Lena, my little 


166 


Darcy Pinckney 


Lena, who will now run to meet mamma? 
Who can ever fill your place, my darling 
little daughter?” 

A pair of soft arms were thrown around 
the weeping mother’s neck, a tear-stained 
face was pressed close to her own, and a 
pleading, childish voice said, “Mamma, don’t 
weep for little sister. I will try to be so 
good. Don’t cry, my sweet mamma. I will 
never grieve you again. Little sister is a 
happy angel now, and we’ll see her again 
when we go to her home in the beautiful 
blue sky. Brother Guy says so. And oh! 
mamma. I’ll have to play alone, all alone.” 
And the boy’s lips quivered, while a wail of 
sadness sounded through the clear young 
voice. 

“My child,” the mother said, and her voice 
grew calm and strangely solemn, “I am 
wrong thus to give way to grief. Yes, you 
shall be my little comforter. You must try 
not to feel lonely. You will meet little sister 
again.” 

Nellie was almost stunned with grief. 
Long and earnestly she gazed on the loved 
face as though she would retain every feat- 
ure perfect on the tablet of her memory un- 
til the awful angel summoned her home to ’ 
God. 

It was a bright, lovely day when the little 
one was carried to her last long resting 
place, to repose there in peace and quiet, an 


Darcy Pinckney 


157 


inhabitant of the city of the dead, until the 
last trumpet should sound. Yes, here the 
household darling would quietly repose until 
the summons came for countless multitudes 
to arise and stand forth to meet their Maker 
face to face. 

The child was tenderly laid away to rest; 
and with sad hearts the once happy family 
returned to their now gloomy home. 

Dear reader, pause with me a little while. 
Almost every family has lost a loved one, 
has felt the presence of the reaper, has felt 
an intense longing to retain for a little while 
longer the loved form about to be consigned 
to the cold grave, the final resting place of 
the mighty and the lowly, the good and the 
wicked. There is no difference in death, the 
same angel will appear to all. Grim death 
alone can place upon a level the aristocrat 
and the plebeian, for “Dust thou are and unto 
dust shalt thou return” applies to all men. 

Yet, though the spirit hath passed away, 
hath gone beyond the “valley of shadows,” 
the dark valley that we never wish to see, 
still the earthly tenement of clay remains. 
Tears are rained upon the pale, quiet face; 
kisses are pressed upon the cold, still lips; 
and we wish to gaze a little longer upon the 
loved features soon to be hid from view. 


CHAPTER XII 


It was through the pretty town of 
Modena that our travelers were being 
whirled along one of the principal streets. 

''To what hotel are we going, mother?” 
queried a stately girl of the superb woman 
who was absently gazing out of the carriage 
windows. 

"To the Republic, my child. The keeper 
is a worthy man. I have known him long. 
To our family he was true when our most 
cherished friends proved false, so trust- 
worthy that I left jewels, books and papers 
with him when I left Italy.” 

With a short "whoa” and a sudden jerk of 
the reins, the horses were stopped before 
the entrance to a large mansion, which in 
reality was one of the finest hotels in Italy. 

"This is the Republic, senora,” said the 
boy as he doffed his cap, and opening the 
door prepared to lower the steps. At the 
same instant a tall, handsome man hastened 
out. While assisting the elder lady to alight 
he caught a glimpse of her face. A look of 
glad surprise filled his dark eyes. 

After entering the hall he said in earnest 
tones, "Welcome back to Italy, senora!” 

"You have not forgotten me, good 


Darcy Pinckney 


159 


Pietro,” the lady said. She offered him her 
hand and introduced him to her daughter. 

“This way, ladies,” and he escorted them 
into a large room magnificently furnished, 
the floor covered with a rich Turkish carpet 
and costly rugs ; elegant curtains of crimson 
damask covered by others of fleecy lace ; 
Venetian mirrors; tables of marble, both 
pure white and clouded ; side-tables of 
carved rosewood inlaid with pearl and loaded 
with silver trays of tempting fruit; curious 
vases filled with rare flowers ; sofas and 
chairs of both Spanish and Italian make; 
splendid pictures adorned the walls; through 
folding doors could be seen a handsome 
bookcase, the shelves filled with richly 
bound volumes, and over the mantelpiece 
was suspended a clock of German make, a 
cupid of marble striking off the seconds with 
a golden hammer on an anvil of silver. 

“You have prospered in your worldly af- 
fairs, Pietro?” 

“Yes, my lady, thanks to your kindness 
and generosity that raised the poor inn- 
keeper to almost fabulous wealth, and that 
for a trifling service.” 

“Well, never mind, richly have you de- 
served all I have ever done for you, for 
through thick and thin you have always been 
staunch and true.” 

“Rest here, ladies, I will bring my wife, 
who will show you to pleasant rooms,” In a 


160 


Darcy Pinckney 


few moments he returned, accompanied by 
a pretty, modest, blue-eyed woman whom 
he introduced to the ladies as Mrs. Pietro 
Arnello. She welcomed them in a very 
American voice and led the way to their 
apartments, two large, airy rooms, parlor 
and bedroom. Here they concluded to rest 
until the late dinner. 

Many visitors were at the table when they 
entered the large dining hall. Both were 
admired on account of their engaging man- 
ners and dignified deportment. 

Later in the evening the maitresse asked 
if they would make her husband and herself 
happy by sitting with them awhile. The 
ladies cordially assented, and were soon 
seated amidst Pietro’s family circle, both he 
and his wife proud of the praise bestowed 
upon their really lovely children, two girls 
and a boy. The eldest girl, a pretty child of 
five years, was cosily seated on an ottoman 
near Nina, chatting in her baby way to the 
young girl. 

‘‘What is your name?” asked Nina. 

“Inez Veronica, but I am called Verona,” 
replied the child. 

“This must be a namesake of yours, 
mamma.” 

“Yes, lady, Pietro named her after your 
mother, whom our little ones have been 
taught to love and revere above all on 
earth.” 


Darcy Pinckney 


161 


A look of pleasure passed over the girl’s 
haughty face. 

“I do believe, mamma, that you must have 
a charm for winning both love and respect. 
Why, these little ones are acquainted with 
you already.” And she kissed the lovely child. 

They conversed both in Italian and Eng- 
lish — for having had a good education, the 
husband was a good English scholar, while 
his wife also conversed well in the musical 
fanguage of Italy. As the ladies arose Pietro 
said, “My lady, do you wish to see if I have 
been a good steward?” and he unlocked an 
iron-bound chest, and took out of it a strong 
box filled with alternate clasps of silver and 
steel, and bowing low he handed her a bunch 
of keys. 

“It does not need this, good Pietro, to tell 
me that you have been faithful.” 

He carried the box to the ladies’ apart- 
ment ; then with a bow of respect withdrew. 

After unlocking and unclasping the box 
the actress — for we will still call her so — 
unclasped a large folio. 

“Here, my child,” she said, “is what I 
most wish to show you.” 

“Ah ! mother dear, it is a book of engrav- 
ings.” 

“Yes, dear; if your Cousin Veronica is liv- 
ing she has a folio the exact counterpart of 
this one.” 


11 


162 


Darcy Pinckney 


‘‘My cousin ! And where is she, mamma ?” 

“In a Spanish convent. It is a sad story. 
She loved unwisely and was placed there 
when quite young. Her mother, after whom 
you were named, was my only sister and my 
dearest friend. We married twin brothers. 
She Pedro, I Carlos Mendoza. This served, 
if such a thing were possible, to draw us 
more closely together. I will tell you more 
another time. Do you remember ever having 
seen a place which this picture resembles?” 

“I have surely seen it in my dreams, 
mother. And this noble-looking man, who 
is he?” 

“My father. And the house is the Villa 
Catelone, my father’s home.” 

“I would have loved to know him, dear. 
And here is your own self, my peerless, 
beautiful mamma. Tell me, who is this? 
Ah! I see the name, Nina Catelone. Your 
sister was very lovely, mamma. It is such 
an exquisite face. And oh! how superbly 
dressed she is.” The lady in the picture was, 
as Nina said, superbly dressed. A skirt of 
crimson silk, a waist of white, and a bodice 
of crimson and gold. Her raven hair was 
partly confined within a network of crimson 
and golden threads. I say partly, for here 
and there a truant ringlet of it had escaped 
and was playing hide and seek with the rich 
bloom of her lovely face. The hands were 
both small and white, the haughty, hand- 


Darcy Pinckney 


163 


some face was well suited to the elegant 
form. Once seen, she could never be for- 
gotten. 

“And this handsome boy, Bernard Cate- 
lone?” 

“He was my only brother. Poor Bern- 
ard,” and the lady’s dark eyes glistened with 
unshed tears. 

“Why do you say ‘poor Bernard,’ 
mamma?” 

“Because, my child, the noble boy, the last 
of his father’s name, was rudely seized and 
dragged before the Spanish inquisitors and 
has never been heard of since.” 

“Might he not have escaped?” queried the 
girl. 

“Little chance of that. He either died 
upon the rack or lingered out his young life 
in some dark, dismal cell. Ah ! well do I 
remember the gallant, handsome boy, with 
his sunny temper and winning ways, making 
by his gay presence sunshine for those he 
loved.” And sobs thick and fast choked the 
lady’s utterance. 

“Cheer up, dear mother! You know the 
darkest hour is just before the dawn. When 
that dark cloud disperses what a bright sil- 
ver lining will float forth to our view. So 
cheer up, dear mamma.” And with graceful 
fondness the once haughty belle sought to 
soothe her mother. 

“I will put away the book that has made 


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Darcy Pinckney 


you feel so sad. We will' look at it another 
time.” And placing it in the box she shook 
down the heavy clasps. 

“The book is yours, my daughter. If 
Veronica lives, she will have her mother’s. 
To-morrow we will visit the home that once 
was mine.” 

“And my father! Will we see my father?” 
eagerly asked the young girl. 

“That is why I go to the villa, to see if the 
aged seneschal has heard news of your 
father.” 

“Was it not very curious the way that 
father was taken away?” 

“Yes, very strange. Ah; the search has 
been a long one, may it not prove fruitless.” 

Early the next morning an official-looking 
document was handed to the elder lady. 
“From his Holiness the Pope,” said Pietro. 

“Perhaps at last I am reinstated in my 
rights.” 

“I think so, my lady. You have had eager 
friends at work.” 

With a trembling hand the package was 
unsealed and the contents perused. It was 
indeed a full reinstatement to all of her large 
landed property in Italy. 

A cry of glad surprise escaped her lips as, 
with a fond yet proud gesture, she turned to 
her daughter, then drew her to her bosom. 

“No longer an actress and an alien from 


Darcy Pinckney 


165 


her native land, your mother is again 
Countess of Catelone,” she said. 

am so glad that the world will know 
you for what you are, although my countess 
mother could not be dearer to me than my 
actress mother has ever been.” 

“Nina, my darling, tell me truly, have you 
felt no shame in the knowledge that your 
mother was an actress?” 

“No, my mother, from the moment that I 
met your glance at the theater I felt proud 
and happy to kilow that you were my 
mother. I can never feel otherwise. Oh ! 
mamma, how I do wish that my father were 
here.” 

“Yes, if I can only find him, to soothe and 
nurse him in his declining years. I fear 
though that he would not know either wife 
or child,” and a look of pain crossed her fine 
face. 

“I hope for the best, mamma. It is 
always best to try to see the bright side of 
the picture of life. You will deem me un- 
reasonable when I say that I find myself 
wishing for a brother.” 

A look of pleasure crossed the face of the 
countess. 

“There is a secret that I have not yet told 
you. I will impart it now. You have a 
brother, a noble, handsome boy, your senior 
by two years.” 

“Please tell me about him, mamma?” 


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Darcy Pinckney 


“When last I saw my little Carlos he was 
a boy of great promise, although but a wee 
child then/’ 

Then she told of the strange vow that she 
had made, not to look upon the face of her 
eldest born until her stolen child, her baby 
girl, was found.” 

“I have caused you so much sorrow. Oh ! 
mother darling, can I ever repay you? A 
lifetime of love would prove inadequate, and 
I wish to see my brother Carlos, dear 
Carlos.” And her rich, musical voice lin- 
gered lovingly on the name. “When will we 
see him, mother?” 

“It will not take us long to reach Sienna. 
Your grandfather owned a suburban villa 
near that place.” 

“Did brother remain there after grand- 
father died?” 

“Yes, my child, unless he went to Spain to 
visit his father’s kindred.” 

“I am more than anxious to see him. I 
wish, too, to hear from papa and Ernest.” 

“It will be weeks yet, love, before you will 
get news from America. You must learn to 
school your impulsive heart to patience.” 
And she fondly stroked the young girl’s 
hair. 

“With you for my preceptress, mamma, I 
cannot fail to become an-adept in all that you 
may wish me to learn.” 

It was strange to see the subdued manner 


Darcy Pinckney 


167 


that characterized the haughty girl while 
she conversed with her mother. 

“Oh! mamma, I will be so glad to see 
your own dear home. Will we get there to- 
day, mamma?” Not waiting for a reply she 
rattled on. “I love Italy as the land of my 
nativity, and England for the warm hospi- 
tality that the poor young governess met 
with there, yes and for the warmth with 
which my mother was received. Yet Amer- 
ica is the land of my adoption. The fair 
Crescent City, her garden spot, is my home. 
I will ever love my beautiful home there.” 

Bidding the landlord to get a private 
vehicle in readiness the ladies equipped 
themselves for their journey. Warm thanks 
were given to the kind, faithful man and his 
pretty wife, while kisses and costly gifts 
were given to the little ones. 

“Good friends, I think that Nina will wish 
to take my namesake with her to America 
when she goes there,” said the countess with 
a smile. 

“We would be sorry to lose our child but 
happy at the idea of her being the young 
lady’s charge,” replied the pleased mother. 

“Very well, make up your mind to give 
Verona to me. I shall certainly come for 
her one of these days.” 

Stooping she gently kissed the shy little 
face, raised so lovingly toward her own, and 
threw a gold chain about the child’s neck. 


168 


Darcy Pinckney 


Nina placed a beautiful jeweled watch in the 
little hands. “A keepsake for you, sweet 
child,” she said, and with her mother entered 
the carriage and they were driven away. 
Two days later they reached a magnificent 
park. The driver opened a large iron gate 
and they drove for a mile through a splendid 
avenue bordered on each side by tall, stately 
trees white-washed up to the lowest 
branches. They drove on until a lawn was 
reached, and a few yards beyond, hidden by 
a perfect bower of trees, magnificent shrubs 
and flowers, a magnificent mansion was dis- 
closed to view. 

“Oh! how lovely, dear mamma. This 
must be an enchanted castle. I almost ex- 
pect to see some grim dragon come forth to 
mar the rich, rare beauty of the scene. But 
perhaps this Eden is inhabited by fairies. 
But no, as if to belie my latter assertion, 
yonder comes a veritable hermit. Do you 
know the name of this lovely place, mamma ? 
I would never wish to wander again, not 
even to dear America, if all I love were here 
and I could settle down in such a blissful 
place. Why, mother, the very flowers are 
more beautiful, the air more balmy, the 
foliage of a deeper green, the birds of more 
brilliant plumage and their songs rarer and 
sweeter than anywhere else on earth. Can 
you tell me the name of this earthly paradise, 
mamma?” 


Darcy Pinckney 


169 


'‘Have you seen no picture lately, dear, 
that yonder noble structure resembles?” 

"Ah ! mamma ; it is your own lovely 
villa, your birthplace and my own. Pardon, 
my seeming levity. I say seeming, for I feel 
dazzled by the tropical loveliness, the rich, 
rare beauty of the place. A moment since I 
admired, now I love this sweet home.” 

An old man came forward and hastened 
to meet them. 

"My poor eyes are fast failing me,” he 
said. "Yet I know you, my lady.” 

Tears trickled down the aged seneschal’s 
wrinkled face as he warmly grasped the 
lady’s hand. 

"And this is the young signora. I know 
her by her resemblance to your ladyship. 
Come, my mistress, the castle doors have 
been open long, the old halls await their 
mistress. Now am I willing to go to rest, 
that I have seen my lord’s child righted, the 
last of a noble house, no longer a wanderer 
on the face of the earth.” 

Calling a boy he ordered the postillion 
and horses to be cared for, and then led the 
way to the mansion. 

Nina now saw that the picture in her 
mother’s portfolio was an exact photograph 
of the house and grounds upon which her 
wondering gaze rested. The house was 
large and airy, the wide hall, flanked on 
either side by spacious rooms, the broad ver- 


170 


Darcy Pinckney 


anda upheld by fluted pillars of white 
marble, the steep roof adorned by a fanciful 
cupola, beautiful oriel windows, each sup- 
ported by splendid brackets, both gods and 
goddesses. The folding doors were com- 
posed of millstone glass and richly stained. 
A green oval-shaped lawn was dotted with 
bushes of pomegranate and larch. Flower 
gardens at each side of the large yard were 
full of rare flowers. Silvery cascades of clear 
water kept the heavily perfumed air always 
cool. Graceful nymphs kept watch over 
fonts of water. Great brownstone dragons 
guarded bushes of rare exotics; and scat- 
tered about were trees, orange, olive, date, 
ilexas, laburnam, Norway spruce, catalpa, 
and beautiful cedars. 

As Nina walked along the path, and up 
the wide steps of costly marble, she could 
not fail to notice the exquisite fresco work 
which adorned the ceiling of the veranda, 
made more beautiful by the mingling of 
both cypress and clematis, whose delicate 
flowers lay in close luxuriance along the fres- 
coed wall, making a most graceful network 
boxing for the fluted pillar. She admired, 
too, the hall with its floor of checked mar- 
ble, alternate squares of white and black. 
The fancifully draped walls, heavy mahogany 
furniture, mirrors of Venetian glass, pearl 
inlaid tables, lovely pictures in costly frames, 
all created a pleasant sensation in the mind 


Darcy Pinckney 


171 


of the girl, for she ardently loved all that was 
rare and beautiful. 

“Let me welcome you to our home,” the 
mother said, and she fondly kissed the hand- 
some face so like her own. 

“Oh ! it is such a beautiful home, mamma. 
All that we need to make our happiness com- 
plete is the presence of our loved ones, for 
it is a superb place.” 

Mother and daughter warmly thanked the 
old man, the former for his faithful care of 
the place, the latter for his devotion to her 
mother. 

“Tell me, Lugi, about my son !” 

“My lady, the young signor grew weary of 
his books and left his home a year ago. I 
heard that he was going to Spain, but do not 
know where he went. There are letters at 
Castle Avon that may tell of his where- 
abouts. Shall I dispatch a boy for them? 
or no, I will go myself.” 

“No, no, good LyUgi, the boy might loiter, 
and your limbs are too aged for such a ride. 
I will go there myself early to-morrow.” 

“I will hasten to order refreshments for 
you, dear mistress, and my young lady.” 
With affectionate eagerness the old man 
bustled out of the hall. 

“Mamma, dear, I am so sorry that you are 
disappointed about my dear brother.” 

“He is a man, my child, and can take care 
of himself. Even had not rumor told me I 


172 


Darcy Pinckney 


would have known he was a gallant lad. I 
feared, I fear still, to ask about your father. 
Oh ! Carlos, my youthful husband, why were 
you so woefully blighted? Why was the in- 
tellect given by God, destroyed by man? 
And oh ! why could I not care for you, when 
most you needed wifely love and devotion. 
And yet I have never through all these weary 
years received tidings concerning you but 
once.” And violent sobs shook the mother’s 
frame. 

^‘Mother, darling, be comforted, and do 
not question the decrees of an all-wise Provi- 
dence. Let me share your grief, dear mamma. 
Together we will go and search for my 
father throughout the breadth and width of 
this land. God is all-wise and doeth all 
things well. He will not let a sparrow fall 
to the ground without His care, and oh! 
how much more precious in His sight are 
the children of men? Do not bow under af- 
fliction, mother. My father is in His holy 
keeping. Let us remember that if it is His 
will that we never shall see my earthly father 
again, it is some solace to know that our 
Father in Heaven chastens in mercy, not in 
wrath, and whatever happens we must trust 
in Him.” 

‘‘And where did you learn this sweet les- 
son, my precious child ? I have sought, 
Nina, to bow my soul in submission to the 
decree of God. It has been the object of 


Darcy Pinckney 


173 


my life, since I left the happy days of girl- 
hood behind me. Yet your beautiful faith 
awakes a new enthusiasm within my mind. 
Yes, to the Lamb without blemish we will 
turn, and in Him put our trust.” And kneel- 
ing together they prayed long and earnestly, 
and both felt calmer when they arose from 
their knees. 

They were examining some large paint- 
ings, when old Lugi entered the room fol- 
lowed by a boy bearing a tray of dainties. 
Soon some of the finest fruit of the season 
was placed before the ladies, cakes in bas- 
kets of silver filagree, white and red wine in 
tiny gold goblets, iced lemonade in cut glass 
tumblers, steaming tea and fragrant coffee 
in dainty cups of Sevres china. After the 
tempting lunch was over the ladies exam- 
ined the different rooms of the villa. All 
were richly furnished, yet with good taste. 
In one room alone there was an almost prod- 
igal profusion of all that was gorgeous and 
rare. 

“Ah! mamma, this room stifles me,” said 
Nina, “it is so magnificent.” And she 
glanced around in pleased wonder. There 
were vases of Persian glass; jars and scent 
stands of the rarest porcelain, filled with 
choice perfume ; tall mirrors, festoons of 
fine thread lace about the massive gilt 
frames; the walls were covered with cur- 
tains of rose-colored silk, embroidered with 


174 


Darcy Pinckney 


gold and silver thread in a quaint design, 
looped back with cord and tassel of gold 
bullion, and they were adorned with fresco 
work by the most skilful workmen; the ta- 
bles, chairs, lounges and settees were of 
rosewood, lightly made and elegantly 
carved ; there were choice books ; Floren- 
tine landscapes; pictures by Rembrandt and 
Angelo, and in one corner of the room an 
etagere literally covered with articles both 
rare and elegant. 

''Oh ! mamma, dear !” again exclaimed the 
girl. "All this is lovely. Whose picture is 
this with the face turned toward the wall?” 

"It is the portrait of an English nobleman 
who stayed for a time at my father’s house 
before I was married.” 

The lady’s lip quivered, and as if to turn 
the subject, she quickly added, "Come, Nina, 
we will visit the summer house. It was built 
when you were a wee bairn.” 

She took her daughter’s arm and they 
passed from the house across a green lawn, 
dotted here and there with stately trees, 
along a shady gravel path, and came to a 
large room with latticework portico in front, 
an arbor at each side, covered with vines. 
Polished oaken benches were on the portico. 
In the room, which was large and airy, were 
two marble-topped tables covered with 
books and vases. A large mirror adorned one 
entire side of the room, and there were light 


Darcy Pinckney 


175 


rocking chairs made of bamboo cane, a sofa, 
and a couple of ottomans. Everything 
showed great taste, even to the airy curtains 
of India muslin looped back with green rib- 
bon. 

“Oh ! mamma, this is so cool and nice.” 

“Yes, I have spent many pleasant hours 
here.” 

Looking about her the girl eagerly ex- 
claimed, “Surely I have seen this lovely place 
before ! I remember it well, dear mother. 
When I was small did you not dance on that 
greensward for my amusement?” 

“Yes, my child, you surely cannot remem- 
ber so far back?” 

“Oh! yes, indeed I do, mamma, and there 
was a large black dog, his name was Aniibis, 
that I once tried to ride. I fell and was hurt. 
I see it all plainly now. I used to imagine it 
only as a beautiful, bewildering dream.” 

. “Yet, my dear child, these day-dreams that 
haunt us so often sometimes, as in your case, 
prove a reality.” 

“And I am so glad that mine has come 
true, for now I am nearly happy. I have 
found my mother, and hope soon to see my 
father and my brother.” 

The next morning the ladies started at an 
early hour for Castle Avon. By traveling 
hard they arrived late the same afternoon. 
The servants poured out to do the ladies 
homage. After an hour’s rest the ladies were 


176 


Darcy Pinckney 


ushered to the dining hall, where a banquet 
was spread fit even for Lucullus, and the 
small hours of night were creeping on be- 
fore they retired. 

“Will you rest in the guest chamber mi 
ladi?” asked a brisk young maiden, daugh- 
ter of an old family servant. 

“No, Lisette — for I think you are the little 
maid whose black eyes I praised so often — 
no, not to the spare room, but to my own dear 
old room we will go.” 

Bidding the girl retire, then breaking the 
seal of a letter handed to her shortly after 
her arrival, the countess read aloud the fol- 
lowing words, written in a bold, boyish hand. 

“My Own Dear Mother: — 

“Not knowing where to send my letter I 
leave it in the care of a trusty servant. I 
have longed so much all these years to know 
a mother’s love, to feel a mother’s caress, 
but alas! both have been denied me. I am 
not upbraiding you, dear mother. I have 
not been altogether unhappy, for my courtly 
old grandfather has always been kind. So 
long as he lived I could stay and pore over 
the musty volumes in his large library, but 
when death claimed him I felt as if my last 
friend were gone. I spent many months in 
searching for my father, both in Italy and 
Spain, yet all of no avail. At last I almost 
believe, what has often been told me, that 


Darcy Pinckney 


177 


he perished under the awful tortures of the 
Spanish inquisition. Oh! mother, my heart 
bleeds for you while I write, so much trouble 
you have seen. Your husband snatched 
from you in his manhood’s prime, your in- 
fant daughter stolen, your heart denied the 
caresses of your son, your first-born, and you 
yourself in a distant land, an alien from your 
home and kindred. Ah, mother, I have 
thought of you, often have I sat for hours 
and gazed at your portrait. I could see that 
you were a noble, glorious woman. I loved 
to look on the broad, high brow, and wept 
when I thought that the soft black eyes 
might never look with love on me, or that 
the sweet lips would never press my own. 
Then I would turn to gaze at the noble face 
of my father, and boyish pride would fill my 
heart as I looked, for I knew that he had 
been all that the canvas represented, the 
stately man, the finished scholar, the perfect 
gentleman. And my heart would ache anew 
as I would think about the uncertainty of 
his fate. Then I would fold back the green 
crepe and look at the angelic face of my little 
sister. This was one of my few pleasures, 
gazing at and drinking in the sweetness of 
that pictured face. I felt that she would have 
been my idol. I sigh to think that I may 
never see her. She is your image. I resem- 


178 


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ble my father in looks, so I am told, but am 
of a more moody temperament. I know if I 
remain here I will die. I must go away. I 
am tired of Italy, tired almost of land. I will 
go and try ocean life for a while. Yes, 
mother, I am weary of Italy. Although the 
flowers are so rare and beautiful, the air 
laden with perfume, the sky so clear and 
blue, yet I am weary of it all, so much beauty 
and no loved one near to share it with me. 

“Mother, dear, forgive my seeming neg- 
lect in not having waited your return, for 
something whispers to me that you will 
surely come. Yet ‘Hope deferred maketh 
the heart sick,’ and mine has been dead with- 
in me for many a year. And, my mother, 
before you see these lines — for I feel that 
you will peruse them, or I would not have 
written — your boy will be a wanderer, per- 
haps far out on the ocean. You, my dear 
mother, and my gentle sister, will pray God 
to guard the absent son and brother, who 
will return some day and will ask all the love 
that your dear hearts can spare. I know my 
sister that you will be restored to our 
mother. Love her well, dear sister, for her 
life has been most unhappy. That God may 
bless you both is the prayer of your wander- 
ing son and brother. 


“Carlos Mlndoza.” 


Darcy Pinckney 


179 


Annexed was a lengthy postcript explain- 
ing how business transactions had been car- 
ried on since his grandfather’s death. 

“My poor, poor boy! Oh! would that I 
had come earlier, or that your journey had 
been postponed a little longer. My own 
poor lonely boy. Come, Nina, we will see 
the picture of which he speaks in the post- 
script. Do not weep, dear,” for Nina was 
sobbing violently. She could not listen un- 
moved to her young brother’s letter. 

They entered a side room where over the 
mantel was placed a large portrait. It was 
the body and face of a young man, a fiery- 
looking lad, the blue-black hair swept care- 
lessly back from the broad, high brow, regu- 
lar features, the whole face perfectly color- 
less, only lit up by a pair of splendid dark 
eyes that could show either mirth or sorrow, 
but in which now was a world of sorrow, 
though the rest of the face looked both fierce 
and firm. Dressed in a rich suit of black, he 
looked as he had described his father, noble 
and handsome. 

“Oh, my mother! he is splendid. I am 
proud and fond of him already. I long to 
greet him with a sister’s warm love. Oh, 
mamma ! are you not proud of him ?” 

“Yes, my dear, how could I be otherwise 
than proud of my talented, noble boy? The 
child gave a truthful promise of what the 
man would be. Aye, in very truth, the hoy 


180 


Darcy Pinckney 


is father to the man, he is what his childhood 
promised. And, Nina, I am proud of your 
brother.’’ 

The two women so much alike in their 
dark Italian beauty, stood for a long time 
with arms clasped about each others slender 
waists, gazing at the splendid face on the 
canvas before them. Oh! how they blessed 
the artist’s work. A servant entered bear- 
ing a silver tray on which lay an embossed 
card. After glancing at the card the coun- 
tess said, as she turned to her daughter, “the 
Duke de Medenia, your father’s most de- 
voted friend, and one of Rome’s wealthiest 
noblemen, has called to see me. I will soon 
return, my child.” And kissing the girl’s 
lovely face she left the room. 

A gentleman of stately presence, dressed 
in the courtly garb of the times, arose and 
advanced to meet the lady, and grasping her 
proffered hand said with heartfelt warmth and 
cordiality, “My dear countess, I am so glad 
to welcome you again to Italy.” 

“Thanks, count. Pray be seated.” 

“Let me first present you with these pa- 
pers, sent by his High Holiness the Pope. 
He sent copies of these by a private courier, 
for, lady, in these days of dread, when blood- 
shed walks hand in hand with rapine 
throughout the land, while the dread friends 
of the Inquisition stalk as mercilessly 
through the halls of wealth as they do 


Darcy Pinckney 


181 


through the hut of the humblest peasant, 
while everything breathes of cruelty, and 
even the air at times is tainted with the foul 
sickening stench of blood, his Holiness 
deemed even the person of his private mes- 
senger unsafe, and in secret dispatched me 
as the bearer of the original document, rein- 
stating you in your vast possessions. He 
also bade me state that the count, your no- 
ble husband, who a second time had been 
incarcerated beneath the walls of a Spanish 
dungeon, had been liberated, and is even now 
en route to meet you. 

^‘Oh ! heavens ! she has fainted !” he cried, 
and seizing a goblet of water he sprinkled it 
copiously on the marble-like face. 

“And my husband is safe! Oh! tell me 
again that Carlos is safe,” murmured the 
lady on returning to consciousness. 

“Yes, signora, yet I cannot with truth say 
that he is well. His health is ruined and he 
is very feeble. I can say that within the past 
few weeks reason has been restored to him, 
and he says that the many years that have 
passed since he was snatched from your side 
have seemed like a perfect blank to him.” 

“And where is my husband now?” 

“He is not many miles away, is traveling 
in the Pope’s own private carriage, and is 
coming by rapid yet easy stages. Some time 
to-night he will be with you.” 

“Oh, my God, I thank Thee! I thank 


182 


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Thee !” And for a few seconds she seemed 
lost in prayer, then grasping the duke’s 
hand she said, ‘‘Let me thank you again for 
all your kindness. But you must be weary,” 
and ringing the bell, she ordered the Italian 
lad to conduct the gentleman to the guest 
chamber and also to take refreshments to 
him. 

The same evening on entering the draw- 
ing-room the duke was presented to Nina. 
She welcomed him warmly. 

“My dear sir,” she said, “I am so glad to 
see any friend of my father;” and she placed 
her small hand in his. 

“You are very like your mother, child. 
You are the living picture of what I remem- 
ber her to have been twenty years ago,” he 
replied, as he stroked her soft, glossy hair. 

“Ah! kind sir, if you tell me this often, I 
fear I shall become very vain, for I am one of 
mamma’s most ardent admirers.” 

“I am not in the least afraid of spoiling 
you, fair girl,” he said, for he was charmed 
by her manner and appearance. 

“Will my father be here to-night?” she 
asked. 

“Yes, he is near here now. I cannot say 
by what route he will come, as I told your 
mother when she spoke of going to meet 
him. You must not expect to find him thus,” 
pointing to the portrait. “Ah no! he has sadly 
changed, the once stately form is bowed, the 


Darcy Pinckney 


isa 

eagle eye is dim, the raven hair grown gray 
from sorrow and sickness. Yet, strange to 
say, through all that he has suffered his voice 
still retains its wondrous sweetness, a voice 
that the best singers in Italy would give their 
right hands even to be able to imitate.” 

“My mother told me nothing of this !” 

“She never speaks of it, my dear. The 
familiars of the inquisition snatched your 
father from his home and family on the pre- 
text that he had made a compact with the 
evil one, that he was endowed with this mu- 
sical voice to gain mastery over the minds of 
men, while in reality he was arrested because 
he was involved in some political scheme for 
the downfall of the dread order, and for the 
welfare of the state.” 

“And they could bring such an absurd 
charge against my father?” 

“Yes, signora, for with them might was 
right. No matter how absurd the charge, 
nothing could be said, nothing done, for then 
they were mighty in their secret power. 
Brothers mistrusted each other, fathers 
looked with suspicion upon their sons, the 
seeds of discord seemed sown in every fam- 
ily, from the mightiest to the lowliest in the 
land. Many men there were at whom was 
pointed the finger of suspicion as being under 
the influence and receiving the pay of Don Al- 
bert Alcaraz, one of the chief fiends, and also 


184 


Darcy Pinckney 


one of the most accomplislied courtiers of the 
age.” 

“Will the fair land of Italy never be freed 
from this dreadful plague?” 

“Alas ! lady, I fear not.” 

“How do I know,” queried the girl, “but 
that even now a member of that secret tri- 
bunal stands before me?” 

“Ah ! signora, can you think so ? Do you 
doubt now?” And throwing aside his short 
mantle she was both pained and surprised to 
see that his left arm was off almost close to 
the elbow. “It was burnt off, for I, too, un- 
derwent the torture.” 

“Forgive me!” she murmured, and added, 
“Oh! my God, how horrible. I shall never 
think about Italy again without a shudder, 
never deem it beautiful again.” . 

“It is not the land, signora. Hook!” and 
he led her to the large open window, “hast 
ever seen fairer vineyards than these? Does 
not the grass grow more soft and waving? 
Are there other skies of as beautiful a blue 
as those that overhang fair Italy. Are not 
the birds of rarer plumage, and do not their 
liquid notes sound sweeter than those across 
the ocean? Is not the very air we breathe 
made redolent with the perfume of lovely 
flowers of every hue and variety, more fra- 
grant than elsewhere? Then tell me, lady, 
hast thou ever seen a fairer land than this?” 
“No! Oh no! Not fairer, not more beau- 


Darcy Pinckney 


185 


tiful, but it will ever seem like the fascinat- 
ing beauty of the serpent which only charms 
the young bird to destroy it. Does not the 
beauty seem hideous when we think of the 
terrible scenes perhaps even now being en- 
acted on this soil? I must not think about 
it. I loved Italy; now I abhor the name.” 

“And I am the cause through giving you 
a picture of horror instead of a pleasant 
story about the lovely women and chival- 
rous men of my sunny clime.” 

“Chivalrous men, forsooth!” she exclaim- 
ed. “Why do they not rid their land of these 
bloody foemen?” 

“Cady, it has been tried. The flower of 
Italy has contended against overwhelming 
numbers of the secret order. Those who did 
not lose their lives, were tortured — alas! I 
shame to say it — into almost abject fear of 
the demons who for long years have held 
high carnival in Rome. It was thus I lost my 
hand, while some lost both, and perhaps an 
eye, according to the offense. Only one of 
my hands was taken. This leniency was 
owing to a favor I did to one of the inquisi- 
tors when his life was endangered. I con- 
fess I did not know then, not till long after- 
wards, that he was a member of the hated 
order. At the time he assured me that he 
might assist me when and where I least ex- 
pected aid — I was astonished when those 
condemned to torture were led from their 


186 


Darcy Pinckney 


cells, I and my companions to lose each a 
right hand and an eye. A rustle at the far- 
ther end of the hall, and from the crowd of 
black-robed inquisitors stepped one whom 
I judged to be a member of some impor- 
tance from the richness of his silken robe 
and mask, as well as from his lofty bearing. 
All eyes were turned upon him. 

“ ‘Remit the sentence,' he cried in stentor- 
ian tones, ‘passed on the Duke de Medenia.’ 

“ ‘Never!’ thundered the others. 

“ ‘Brothers !’ again the deep voice sounded 
clarion-like through the vast hall, ‘have I 
ever sought recompense? Would I ever re- 
ceive aught for my services?’ 

“‘No! no!’ the masked men shouted. 

“ ‘Have I ever sued for a favor until now ?’ 

“‘No! thou never hast,’ they answered. 

“ ‘Then, brothers, will ye with whom I 
have labored,’ and a scornful laugh broke 
the mournfulness of his speech, ‘will ye re- 
fuse me this, the only boon I have ever 
asked?’ 

“A low whispering, and then in a few 
words it was announced that the sentence 
would be partly remitted. 

“Ah, lady, here in your ease and security 
you cannot imagine the joy I felt as I heard 
those words, for perhaps my eye would be 
spared or my hand left. Yet sorrow filled 
my heart as I gazed on my friends whom I 
felt sure no earthly power could save. A 


Darcy Pinckney 


187 


thought flashed through my mind. We were 
Masons. We made this known to my un- 
known champion. He returned the sign 
and also made a proffer of sympathy and aid. 
In a few words he told that we were mem- 
bers of the holy brotherhood, asking leniency, 
if not pardon, for all. 

“ ‘I do not know,’ responded a gruff voice, 
‘why this should soften our hearts !’ 

“ ‘Aye ! but I do,’ replied the unknown. 
‘Even as we met upon the level, so we part 
upon the square. It is a pledge to help one 
another, at any rate so far as it is in our 
power to do so. These men are all Masons,’ 
addressing a stalely personage seated on a 
dais somewhat apart from the other members, 
‘you can examine them for yourself. I rely 
upon your judgment to have the sentence re- 
mitted as far as possible.’ 

“When the chief became satisfied that we 
were Masons and that some of us ranked in 
the order with himself, he announced the 
fact in a cold brief tone, saying that the sen- 
tence was remitted to the loss of one hand, 
and the choice left to us. We all felt re- 
lieved. We would still have a hand left and 
our eyes would not be touched. We felt 
thankful to the grand inquisitor for this 
show of leniency, for we had expected none, 
and were grateful to the tall dark man who 
had sought to save us. A deep silence per- 
vaded the hall. Again it was broken by the 


188 


Darcy Pinckney 


inquisitor who had pled in our behalf. ‘I 
have your question yet to answer/ he said. 
‘This gentleman, the Duke de Medenia, gave 
me succor when in great danger. By his 
bravery my life was saved. I have never for- 
gotten my brave preserver. I would rather 
burn my hand off at the stake than see a hair 
of his head harmed.^ 

“Bowing low with a stately grace to his 
companions he advanced and offered me his 
hand. I grasped it cordially, and making a 
sign of caution he resumed his place in the 
council. 

“By his deep tones and eloquent gestures 
I could see that he was still pleading for us 
but without avail. At three o’clock the next 
day the sentence was to be carried into ef- 
fect. The same evening as my fellow cap- 
tives and myself were gloomily discussing 
the severe trial in store for us — for, lady, 
either hand that we might choose would be 
burned off by a slow consuming fire — our 
jailer, who in many instances had proved to 
be a humane man, entered and placing a 
tray of food before us said, ‘Signors, are 
you not hungry?’ ‘Yes, I am almost fam- 
ished,’ said a dark-eyed youth, the youngest 
of us all. ‘Now, signors, dine. I will wait 
until you have finished.’ Thus spoke a scion 
of one of the noblest houses in Rome. I 
tell you this, signora, to let you see that here 
courtly breeding is carried even into prison 


Darcy Pinckney 


189 


walls. Our repast was finished, but still the 
jailer lingered. 

‘What troubles you, Paola?’ asked the 
Duke of Milan. 

“ ‘My lord,’ began the man, ‘I was or- 
dered to give this to the Duke de Medenia,’ 
taking a good-sized flask from his pocket, 
‘with these words, “sent by his unknown 
friend.” ’ 

“ ‘And, Paola, what am I to do with this ?’ 

“ ‘Hist ! my lord signor, walls have ears. 
Many a tale they tell, whether inquisitorial 
halls, or monastic cell.’ 

“As we gathered around he told us in a 
few words there was a note with the flask 
which would tell all. Hearing a noise in the 
outer entrance, he picked up his tray, and in 
a gruff voice bade us look well to ourselves, 
that he had a good notion not to bring us 
any supper. He said this to lull suspicion 
in any one lingering near. Thinking that 
walls might have eyes as well as ears, I 
placed the flask in my bosom and we began 
conversing of the past, although the pres- 
ent filled our thoughts. About half an hour 
after the jailer’s departure, I read the note. 
The flesh-colored liquid in the flask was to 
be rubbed upon our arms and hands from 
the elbows down, for possibly the choice of 
hands that had been given us might be with- 
drawn and the familiars themselves decree 
which hand we were to lose. The fluid was 


190 


Darcy Pinckney 


sufficient to stain the hands and arms of 
every one. The note said that no pain 
would be felt during the fiery ordeal if we 
used the liquid. The writer would gladly 
have saved us, but it was impossible. We were 
bidden to destroy the note and return the 
flask to the jailer. I followed the directions 
and returned the empty flask to Paola, who 
very humbly asked our pardon for his gruff- 
ness of the morning. 

'‘At the appointed hour we were led to a 
burning crucible placed in the midst of the 
hall. There we stood until our left hands 
withered and crackled in the sparkling 
flames. The unknown had told us the 
truth, for I felt no pain. The fluid did its 
work well, for although our limbs were liter- 
ally roasted we did not feel it. The famil- 
iars stared at us in surprise. 

“ These men act like martyrs,' was all they 
could say. 

“Our arms, or the portions that were left of 
them, were bandaged. After being blind- 
folded we were led from the room and made 
to enter vehicles and whirled along the 
streets at a tremendous rate. When al- 
lowed to alight, we found ourselves in the 
eastern part of the city. The reason of their 
secrecy was that they did not wish us to 
know in whose palace we had been tried or 
in whose dungeon we had been imprisoned, 
for it was whispered that often the halls of 


Darcy Pinckney 


191 


Rome’s wealthiest citizens had been con- 
verted by the order of the grand master into 
courtrooms of justice as they mockingly 
call it. From these tribunals prisoners are 
often taken from one town to another. 
When this takes place the captives are never 
heard from more. They either die on the 
rack by some fiendish torture, or are im- 
mured for life in some dark loathsome cell 
to drag out in misery their wretched exist- 
ence.” 

The girl had listened intently to every 
word that he had uttered. Grasping his 
hand she told how deeply she sympathized 
with him. 

“And my father. Did you hear anything 
of him while you were in prison?” 

.“No, lady, he had been carried to a differ- 
ent tribunal, and I could hear nothing con- 
cerning him.” 

“Did you ever see your unknown friend 
again ?” 

“No, Nina, I never saw him more. It was 
strange, too, after showing so much interest 
in our behalf. I presume though that he had 
been sent away on some errand or perhaps 
for his own safety he deemed it best to 
avoid us.” 

“And does the Pope allow such things?” 

“Alas! signora, although the highest dig- 
nitary of the Catholic Church, yet even he 
is not able to break up this order which is 


192 


Darcy Pinckney 


like a plague-spot in our fair land. Some 
have even dared to whisper that his Holi- 
ness favored the inquisitors, and does not 
notice their depredations. Yet I know that 
during the past two years he has made 
Rome a somewhat safer place of residence 
than it once was.’’ 


CHAPTER XIII 


Mr. Hartly rapidly recovered his strength ; 
and the homeward bound voyage was a 
pleasant one. Agreeably to his promise he 
called to see Mr. Walsingham soon after his 
arrival at home. The gentlemen were con- 
versing about political affairs in England 
when Guy suddenly exclaimed, “Father, I 
have found out who the picture resembles. 
It is the image of Mr. Hartly.’' 

“Yes, Guy, I noticed the resemblance 
some time ago.” 

He left the room and on his return 
brought an ebony casket, out of which he 
drew a locket and handed it to the gentle- 
man. 

A misty film gathered over the dark eyes 
and his face grew pale. 

“Where did this locket come from? The 
picture is mine, taken years ago.” 

He pressed a small clasp and a gold leaf 
slid out on which was engraven his name in 
full. 

“Oh! had I known the secret of that 
spring clasp I might have made you happy 
long ago.” 

“Tell me about my daughter. Where is 
she?” 

13 


194 


Darcy Pinckney 


‘‘She is a child of whom any father might 
be proud.” And he told his listener the story 
as related by Mr. Hume, and also gave him 
the letter written by the gentleman shortly 
before he died. 

“And by what name — ” 

“Your daughter is now known as Clara 
Hume.” 

A flush of pleasure mounted Mr. Hartly’s 
face. 

“Some secret feeling drew me to her the 
first time that we ever met. I must hasten 
to find my darling. You, my kind friends, 
will excuse a father’s impatience. Or will 
you go with me? Perhaps,” as he turned 
with a smile to the handsome invalid, “you, 
too, will go, that is, if you feel strong enough 
to accompany us. I have not forgotten that 
you were my daughter’s defender. She 
could never find a more noble protector.” 
And he warmly grasped the young man’s 
hand. 

Guy remained at home, as he was still too 
feeble to walk about except from room to 
room. 

On arriving at Mrs. Hume’s they were 
ushered into the parlor, and she soon made 
her appearance. Mr. Walsingham briefly 
stated the cause of their visit. 

“And am I to lose Clara, who has ever 
been as eldest daughter in our hearts and 
home? Oh! Clara, Clara,” and she pressed 
her hand to her side as if in extreme pain. 


Darcy Pinckney 


195 


At that moment Clara entered the room. 
Springing to her mother’s side she said, 
“What is the matter, dear mamma?” 

“You are not my daughter. To this gen- 
tleman, Mr. Hartly, you owe a daughter’s 
love and obedience.” 

Clara gazed at her mother in utter amaze- 
ment, while Mr. Hartly stepped forward and 
with outstretched arms, exclaiming, “Clara, 
I have so long yearned for this moment! 
Will you not welcome me, my daughter?” 

The next instant the young girl was 
clasped closely to his heart. 

“Oh ! father, let me comfort my mother.” 

She uttered a low cry, for Mrs. Hume was 
seized with one of the severe attacks to 
which she had been a victim since childhood. 
Of late years they had become worse and 
her attending physicians said that her health 
was fast declining. Clara quickly procured 
a phial from which she poured some drops, 
which the lady drank eagerly. 

“I am better now, my darling. Will you, 
my kind friends, explain all to Clara? Some 
of the story is still a mystery to me.” 

“Not yet, mamma. Let me see you fully 
recovered first. Is it not best thus, father?” 
laying her hand on his arm as she spoke. 

“No, my dear, I wish all to be told now.” 
Then placing Clara’s hand in Mr. Hartly’s, 
she said, “Forgive me for being so selfish. 


196 


Darcy Pinckney 


When you learn to know her you will not 
wonder that I disliked to give her up. She 
is so good, so pure and gentle, believe me, 
our keeping her all these long happy years 
was not intentional. I feel joy in knowing 
that she has found a father who will love 
her.” And she turned away weeping. 

‘‘Do not weep, mamma dear,” said the af- 
fectionate girl. “We live so close to my 
father’s house that I may still be with you 
nearly all the time. You see, father, her 
health is so delicate that I fear to leave her.” 

“And you need not, my daughter. It is 
only fair that Mrs. Hume should live with 
you awhile. You have found a home under 
her roof all your life. The change might be 
beneficial to her health, and I will take no 
refusal.” 

“Mamma, darling, will you go? Or must 
I be a second Ruth?” asked the girl in low, 
winning tones. 

“It would be a burden, my dear.” 

“Ah ! was I ever a trouble to you, mam- 
ma?” ' 

“No, my child, you are my precious bless- 
ing.” 

“Then we will do as father wishes.” 

So it was settled to the satisfaction of all 
parties, and when Ernest called and was wel- 
comed by his new-found sister and was told 
of their plans, he, too, was overjoyed. Tak- 
ing Eily on his knee he said gaily, “And you 


Darcy Pinckney 


197 


will be my little sister, and love me very 
much ?” 

“Yes, if you won’t take sister Clara from 
me !” 

“Well, little lady, that is a promise.” 

“I’m so glad,” sobbed the child, “for I 
love sis Clara so much, and I can’t do with- 
out her. Poor mamma would die if you 
were to take sister away.” 

“Be comforted, Lily, brother Ernest does 
not wish to take me from you, darling. I 
could not leave mamma and my little pet, 
so I am going to take them with me. And 
you see I will still be mamma’s nurse, while 
you will help me to keep house. Won’t that 
be nice ? I am sure brother Ernest will 
praise the nice tea cakes that you will make 
for him.” 

“Will you, brother Ernest?” queried the 
child. 

“Yes, of course I will, darling, and I will 
give you a cornucopia of sugar plums for 
every plate of cakes that you cook for me. 
And I will give you a big wax doll, bigger 
than that one on the sofa.” 

“Oh ! sis Clara gave me that, and I named 
it Clara.” 

“Did you? Well, what will you name the 
one that I am going to give you?” 

“I will call her Ernest, and you shall be 
her godfather.” 

“And, Ernest, tell me of Eugenia. I was 


198 


Darcy Pinckney 


SO happy to see you, dear brother, or I would 
have asked sooner. She has often spoken to 
me about you. Little did I dream that I was 
listening to the praises of my own brother. 
Poor Genie, I dread to think how she will 
suffer.” 

“Nay,” replied the young man, “you must 
not think of her so, for she has found her 
mother, a mother in every way worthy of 
her. When next year you see Eugenia, or 
rather Nina, it will be as your brother’s peer- 
less bride. Can you give her a sister’s warm 
welcome?” 

“Yes, oh yes, dear brother. I always loved 
and admired her, for she was both good and 
beautiful.” 

Mr. Hartly had taken his leave, saying that 
he would send the carriage around for them 
late in the afternoon, also a servant to do 
the packing. 

Lily came to Clara, saying that a strange 
woman had asked to see her. 

“She has a large package too, sis Clara, 
and said that Inez sent her.” 

“Oh! yes,” exclaimed the girl, “the nurse 
of whom Inez wrote.” And turning to Lily 
she said, “You must try to entertain brother 
Ernest until I return.” 

The Italian had nerved herself, as she 
thought, for the interview, but when she 
looked upon the calm, lovely face, so like 
the dark splendid face of her former charge. 


Darcy Pinckney 


199 


her self-control gave way, a faintness crept 
over her, and with the words, “Forgive, oh 
forgive me, sweet lady,” she fell at the 
young girl’s feet. 

“There is some mistake. You have never 
harmed me, I am sure, so why ask my for- 
giveness?” And her voice was low and 
gentle, as she kindly took the distressed 
woman’s hand. 

“Oh ! you would curse me if you knew all. 
Lady, I have wronged you deeply, but now 
I will repair the wrong.” 

“Never mind, I have heard all. I presume 
that you are the woman whom Nina claimed 
as nurse. You are Mrs. Theresa?” 

“Yes, child, if I were only forgiven for this 
sin, I would be willing to die, even though 
far from Italy.” 

“And would you like to go to Italy?” 
asked the young girl. 

“Oh! yes, lady, I would like to close my 
eyes in peace in that fair land. I would like 
my poor nursling to close my eyes when the 
time comes for me to go. Ah! where is my 
baby now?” And she began weeping anew. 

“There, do not weep. Sit here.” With 
her accustomed gentleness she placed a 
chair near an open window and led the old 
woman toward it. “I have good news of 
Nina,” she said. 

“Stop, lady, first tell me that you forgive 
me, for oh, it was to save my dainty baby 


200 Darcy Pinckney 

from a dreadful fate that 1 committed that 
awful sin.” 

“Well, do not think any more about it. I 
do fully, freely forgive you. Perhaps it was 
for the best. Indeed I hope so. Nina is 
with her mother the countess. They are 
now in Italy; and my brother tells me that 
you were forgiven by them both.” 

“And, lady, Mr. Hartly, your father. Oh ! 
can he forgive me?” murmured the woman. 

“If Nina’s mother could forgive you, 
surely my father will. There, do not de- 
spond. I will arrange it with my father, and 
if you wish to see Italy and your birdling 
again, Ernest will find a way for you to go.” 

“Bless you, my sweet young lady. May 
Heaven bless you. Only get Mr. Hartly’s 
forgiveness and I can find my way to Italy. 
Miss Nina was generous, always gave me a 
share of her pin-money. And the dark man 
gave me money when he left for Europe. 
Here is a package that my pretty Inez sent 
to you.” 

“Oh! thanks for your bringing tidings 
from that sweet child. She asks me, too, to 
be kind to you. So go now and rest.” 

Calling an Irish girl she told her to take 
the old woman to the dining-room and give 
her something to eat and a cup of strong 
tea. 

“And, Mrs. Theresa, papa will see you to- 
morrow,” she said. 


Darcy Pinckney 


201 


Opening the box she was astonished to 
find that the contents were both rich and 
costly. A small jeweled dagger, a portfolio 
full of rare engravings, a beautiful fan, a tiny 
opera glass, a necklace and ring set with em- 
eralds, and a double goldbound case con- 
taining pictures of a dark-eyed, gipsy look- 
ing girl and a handsome, swarthy boy. The 
name Carlos, in gilt letters, was under the 
youth’s picture, and Inez under that of the 
girl. Long and earnestly she gazed at the 
faces. That of the girl seemed like the little 
Inez of her acquaintance. It was older, 
though, and she judged it was some relative 
of the young girl. She was much pleased to 
find also the oil painting that she had seen 
while at Mr. Walker’s home. It was fin- 
ished now and a fine picture of Inez. Pinned 
to it was a note: “Do not refuse my gifts. 
Do you like my picture? Keep it always. 
I will claim the double picture and the dag- 
ger. The rest are yours, and think about 
me when you wear the gems. Wear the 
ring forever. Do not forget Inez Walker.” 

Slipping the ring on her finger, she mur- 
mured, “I will wear it always, but I value 
the sweet face more than all else. Poor 
child, I hope that her life will be a pleasant 
one. Yet how can I hope this, knowing the 
nature of her brother? And yet he appeared 
to be unhappy, more reckless than wicked.” 

Meanwhile, Ernest had been conversing 


202 


Darcy Pinckney 


with the little Lily and was greatly charmed 
with her pleasant and graceful though child- 
ish ways. 

‘‘So, sis Clara could find time to teach 
you?’' 

“Oh! yes, she is so smart and good, and 
I wish that I may be like her when I am 
grown up.” 

She showed him her picture book and read 
aloud to him. Suddenly she asked, “When 
mamma, sis Clara, and I go to your home, 
where will buddie Ned go?” 

“He will go to college, and spend his va- 
cations with us. Won’t that be nice?” 

“Oh! yes, it will be nice, and I am so 
happy again.” 

“I claim a kiss from my little sister and 
she must always love me,” he said, as he 
kissed the angelic face. 

The Italian woman drank the tea, and not 
lingering to rest, departed for Mr. Hartl/s 
house. Finding the gentleman, she fell on 
her knees at his feet, saying, “Oh ! kind mas- 
ter, forgive me. I have sinned and have 
suffered much. Oh! master, for the love 
of the good God, forgive me,” and tears 
coursed down her dark face. 

“Do not kneel to me, Theresa,” Mr. 
Hartly said. “Kneel only to the God on 
whom you have just called. You have been 
the cause of suffering yet freely do I forgive 
you.” 


Darcy Pinckney 


20S 


“Heaven forever bless you, kind master. 
Now I can die at peace with God and man. 
Here is a letter left for you by my young 
lady the night she fled from your home. I 
carried the letter away. I was so distracted 
with grief that I scarcely knew what I did. 
I met one whom I knew as a boy; he had 
with him a half-sister, a child connected by 
ties of kindred to my lady, the countess — 
ah! it was like seeing Italy again. The 
brother found the letter and almost threat- 
ened my life when I spoke of seeking you. 
It was your anger, though, of which he told 
me that aroused my fears. He has gone 
away, and hearing of your return I hastened 
to make restitution. Will you say again 
that you forgive me?” 

“Yes, Theresa, go and seek the lady who 
has suffered even more deeply than myself, 
and strive to make reparation to her for the 
sorrow you have caused her. Had you a 
motive, Theresa?” 

“Yes, master, I did, as God sees my heart, 
what I deemed for the best. Ah ! it was to 
save my lady’s child from sorrow and suffer- 
ing that I stole the little girl. This is the 
dread secret of the family.” Leaning 
toward him she whispered a few words 
which caused a livid hue to spread over his 
fine face, while he trembled as with an ague. 
Surprise held him speechless for several mo- 


204 Darcy Pinckney 

ments ; his voice was hoarse when he spoke 
again. 

“This is terrible. Ah! no, I do not, can- 
not blame you. I will read this letter and 
then settle on some way to send you to 
Italy.” 

So saying he left the room. The Italian 
quickly left the house. 

“I have their forgiveness. Ah 1 I can find 
my way to my own fair land. I will see my 
darling before I die.” 

Mr. Hartly eagerly opened the letter. It 
was the copy left by his dark-eyed Genie as 
he still termed her. The postmark was 
Valence, France. He read: 

“I have just received news of such a nature, 
that were it not for sickness I would start 
immediately for America. Some fifteen years 
ago I was in Boston with my daughter, then 
a mere infant. Her nurse was an Italian 
named Theresa. During that season I was 
star at the leading theater in that city. One 
evening the nurse, who had taken my little 
Nina for a walk, having been gone longer 
than usual, I became uneasy. I could not miss 
my engagement and tried to banish the dull 
foreboding of evil that filled my mind. I pre- 
pared for the theater. I acted the part of the 
Spanish lady whose only child had been stolen 
by Gipsies It was simple, yet prophetic. 
After being rapturously applauded I was 
called for again and again. Oh! with what 


Darcy Pinckney 


205 


anguish my heart throbbed. Unable longer 
to repress my emotions I rushed from the 
stage. On arriving at home I found a note 
stating that I would see Nina no more. Be- 
fore I finished reading the note my brain 
reeled with agony. My child was stolen and 
by her nurse. At once I instituted a search 
throughout the city but without avail. I 
then traveled through the length and 
breadth of the United States as Lola Dean, 
and visited all the principal cities both North 
and South, but could hear nothing of my 
little one. My heart throbbed with joy only 
once in all these long years. While in Mo- 
bile I saw a child the very counterpart of my 
baby. On a nearer view I saw that the sweet 
face was fair and the curls of a golden 
brown. I would have sworn it was Nina had 
I not seen her face, yet its fair loveliness 
was an exact image of my baby’s dark face. 
My heart felt chilled yet I pressed the lovely 
infant to my bosom. ‘What is your name, 
dear?’ I asked. ‘It is Clara Genie,’ said the 
little one. Ah! my yearning mother-heart 
almost died within me as I turned away. 
Soon I left for Italy and from there went to 
England, where I was employed in her Maj- 
esty’s private theater. Becoming weary of 
being so long a time in one place I bade 
adieu to the fog and smoke of London and 
sailed for France. There I waited upon and 
nursed a young American, Morton Dent by 


206 


Darcy Pinckney 


name, through an illness. He often in mo- 
ments of delirium called aloud, 'Eugenia, 
Oh! Genie.’ Once when I thought he was 
in a stupor he looked earnestly at me, ask- 
ing, 'When did you come, Genie? Is Mr. 
Hartly here?’ I told him my name. He 
muttered 'strange, strange,’ and begged 
me not to leave him. He then fell asleep, 
the first sound refreshing sleep he had had 
for days. When convalescent I asked him 
about the Genie whom he fancied that I re- 
sembled. Taking an ivory card from his 
pocket he handed it to me saying, 'It is but 
a poor painting, yet is she not lovely? It is 
the face of my dear friend Genie Hartly, to 
whom I bade adieu months ago.’ Need I 
say, Mr. Hartly, that I knew I was gazing 
upon the features of my child, my long-lost 
darling? Ah! yes, I know that she is such, 
for a mother’s love, a mother’s instinct, 
never fails her. I questioned the young art- 
ist. He told me many things, said that 
Nina’s nurse was your housekeeper and that 
she was an Italian named Theresa. Will you 
question the woman? My heart tells me 
that we have been foully wronged. The 
golden-haired child that I met in Mobile 
must have been your little one. The dark 
locks, brows and lashes of my baby-girl 
were disguised by Mrs. Theresa, for being 
with me while I traveled as an actress, she 
had learned the art of dressing and coloring 


Darcy Pinckney 


207 


the hair. I give a list of the clothing worn 
by Nina — a dress of crimson silk richly 
trimmed with golden braid, the pattern a palm 
leaf ; crimson shoes ornamented with gold 
buckles, a black cap and crimson plume. Her 
undergarments were of the finest linen, marked 
N. M. 

“I can give no reason for my child being 
stolen except it was to place wealth at her 
disposal, for Theresa was very fond of her 
charge, and had often bewailed my poverty 
on the little one’s account. Domestic 
troubles had separated my family. She, 
Theresa, remained faithful until she stole my 
child. By instituting a search you may ob- 
tain a clue to the mystery. Let me hear 
from you immediately. I am compelled to 
remain at this place until able to travel. The 
doctor has come. I feel feverish. Forgive 
me if this causes your heart to ache. 

‘Tne:z Mkndoza.” 

This, then, was the letter that had sent her 
whom he had loved as a daughter from her 
home. No wonder that her proud heart 
ached. 

“My poor child,” murmured the gentle- 
man. “Ah ! I could have saved her much 
sorrow had she not listened to the dictates 
of pride. Yet perhaps it is best. Oh! God, 
spare her from the knowledge of that dread- 
ful secret, my own peerless Genie.” And 


208 


Darcy Pinckney 


the same ashen hue spread over his face. 
“Ernest must never know it, he is so proud. 
No! he must go and bring her home as he 
promised. With our love harm shall never 
come to her.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


Phil Walker’s anger may be better im- 
agined than described when on his return 
home he found the fair captive flown. He 
even raised his hand to strike his sister. She 
did not shrink nor did her eye quail before 
his fierce glance. She stood proudly facing 
him, her bearing as haughty as his own. 

“You dare not strike me; you cannot 
have forgotten the promise you made to our 
dying mother that her child should never 
feel the weight of your hand when in anger! 
Wait until your temper cools and then, if 
you can find the heart to do so, strike me.” 

The fierce glare passed from his eyes, 
whilst his face assumed an ashen hue, as he 
asked in an unsteady voice that contrasted 
strangely with the passionate tones of a mo- 
ment before, “Do you remember my conver- 
sation with your mother, Inez, before she 
died?” 

“Only imperfectly; the promise I have 
never forgotten and never will forget.” 

Before he left the room he said, “Make 
your preparations to-night, for to-morrow 
we leave for England.” 

“Oh !” moaned the girl, “why must I leave 
America? Why go to hateful England?” 
xA-nd bowing her head on her hands she sob- 
14 


210 


Darcy Pinckney 


bed aloud. “Oh! I wish I were going to 
mamma's land, to sunny Italy, or to the dear 
old convent." 

She sighed as she began collecting various 
books, sketches, scraps of embroidery, and 
musical instruments. “These are mine, dear 
mamma’s gifts, I will take them.” 

She pulled the bell-rope and an elderly 
woman made her appearance. 

“Ah! nurse,” she said as she grasped her 
hand, “why am I to go away? Oh! tell me 
why ?” 

“You meddled with your brother’s affairs 
in some way and so he has given orders for 
you to be in readiness to go.” 

“Are you ready to go?” queried the child. 

“I am not to go,” said the woman sadly. 

“Oh ! my good old friend, will you leave . 
me, will you let me go without you?” and 
again the girl sobbed as though her heart 
would break. 

“I wish to go with you, poor little one, 
but you know that your brother comes of 
a race who seldom break their word, when 
once given. He said he would not humor 
you in the least.” 

“Well,” and the fierce glare of Italy shone 
through the luster of her soft black eyes, “he 
shall see that tyranny can neither break my 
spirit nor win my love. Dear nurse,” she 
said, as the softness crept back to the dark 
eyes while tears quivered through the sil- 


Darcy Pinckney 


211 


very accents of the musical voice, ‘‘I dislike 
to leave you, oh so badly. I will write to 
you, nurse, under cover to Miss Clara 
Hume.” 

What made the woman’s face turn such a 
grayish color as. she trembled in every limb? 

“What is the matter, nurse?” 

“Nothing, dear Miss Inez!” yet her large 
black eyes were filled with a look of fear. I 
will pack the small trunk, you can pack the 
large one, my lady.” 

A few moments after, as Inez left the 
room, the young man entered. 

“What is the matter with you, my worthy 
nurse? Does the mere mention of a name 
blanch your face?” 

“Oh! spare me, Mr. Walker; spare me!” 

“Really, I do not see the necessity of my 
being so lenient, when you will not spare 
yourself. This foolishness may yet put you 
in prison, for hearken, oh most sanctimo- 
nious of duennas, most circumspect of 
nurses, the crime of childstealing is a crim- 
inal offense.” 

A malicious pleasantry sounded in the 
man’s clear voice, as he watched a startled 
look come and go in the aged woman’s eyes, 
turned so imploringly toward him. 

“Oh ! if I confess all may I not yet be par- 
doned?” 

“Do not trust to that, it does not seem at 


212 


Darcy Pinckney 


all probable. It is to save you, or partly on 
that account, that I take Inez away.” 

‘'How did you discover my secret. Master 
Phil?” 

“This told me,” and he produced a worn 
pocket book. 

A wail of agony broke from the old 
woman’s lips. 

“Oh! return it to me, Master Phil. I lost 
it. I will destroy the papers it contains.” 

“Not so fast, Theresa, I will keep these. 
I will do nothing against you. Prepare Inez 
for the journey. You shall hear from me 
every month.” As he said this he left the 
room. 

She had finished packing the trunk when 
Inez returned. She handed the young girl 
a casket of rare work saying, “Here are your 
jewels, my child!” 

“I will not take them. You must keep 
them for me.” 

“No, my little lady. Do not be angry if 
I give you a word of caution. Beware of 
the Lady Flora; she may seem fair, but she 
has a wicked heart. Wear your richest 
jewels to the first ball that you attend and 
you may be able to retain them.” 

“I will do so to please you, dear nurse, 
and to please me you must keep this,” giving 
the old woman a jeweled ring. “If ever in 
need you must not mind parting with it. Now, 


Darcy Pinckney 213 

nurse, tell me,” as her arm stole about the 
wrinkled neck, ‘‘tell me about my father.” 

“As I look upon you, Inez,” she began, in 
the soft rich tone peculiar to the children of 
Italy, “as I gaze into your eyes so like your 
mother’s, I am not the weak, trembling old 
woman — age, wrinkles, sin and sorrow are 
all forgotten. I am once more in my lord’s 
hall, the smartest, jauntiest maid that ever 
served lady. Domestic troubles came, the 
family was separated, your father was taken 
from his wife, and hurried away — only three 
years had they been wedded. He was thrust 
into a dungeon, to rot his young life away — 
for he was a mere boy. The jailer was bribed 
and your father escaped. Your mother was 
sick, you were a new-born babe, and she 
could not follow her husband. So saddling 
his steed your father went away. Soon after 
news came that your father was slain. 
For five years she mourned the loss of her 
youthful husband. In the mean time, your 
mother’s property was confiscated and she 
herself deprived of every comfort. An Eng- 
lishman, who had loved her when she was a 
mere child, came and they were married. 
You remember Mr. Edwin Walker, your 
stepfather. Your mother’s spirit was broken 
by his tyrannical treatment, indeed I fear his 
behavior would have been brutal had not 
Master Phil, Mr. Walker’s stepson, a mere 
lad at that time, interfered. He even stood as 


214 


Darcy Pinckney 


protector to his youthful stepmother, and he 
saved you from many a blow.” 

“Oh! Theresa, and did mamma love my 
brother? Oh, tell me this?” 

“Yes, child, in truth she did, for at that 
time his nature was not evil, and he was her 
friend. His stepfather was thrown from a 
horse and carried home a corpse. Your 
mother faded away and died in less than a 
month after Mr. Walker’s death. Phil was her 
only deathbed friend ’as her kindred were far 
away. Miss Inez, try to be gentle to your 
brother. He was not always as he is now. 
Perhaps you may change him. Be gentle 
and kind, do not defy him. You may yet 
win him back to be his better self again. Ask 
me no more questions, child! I will say that 
there has been a mystery about Master Phil’s 
name. This is as it was told to me. I myself 
was duenna in a noble family, the kindred of 
your mother. My young mistress was beauti- 
ful and accomplished. Her husband was a 
noble cavalier; he became involved in some 
political scheme, was seized and dragged to 
the inquisition. When he came home the light 
of reason had fled from his eyes. So worn and 
haggard was his once handsome face that 
his own wife, the mother of his fine boy and 
dainty girl, did not know him. The lips that 
once were always wreathed with gay smiles 
now only made the repulsive motions of the 
insane. It was a terrible blow yet my mis- 


Darcy Pinckney 


215 


tress attended him with care and love. In 
the dead of night he was again taken from 
her and carried none knew whither. My 
lady’s grief was heartrending. Then came 
another blow; her property was taken. In 
order to win money to carry on the search 
for the young count she was compelled to 
become an actress. Her little girl was stolen. 
She swore never to look upon the face of 
her son until she found her daughter. And 
now, child, I can tell you no more. When 
next we meet I hope it will be in Italy. Be 
as pure and guileless then as you are now; 
trust in God; I, a sinner, put faith in Him; 
He will protect you.” 

“Oh ! I thank you so much, and if I can 
ever take care of you I will be so glad to do 
so. I will some of these days, so don’t 
grieve, dear nurse.” 

In a drawing-room in one of the most fash- 
ionable houses in the city of London, sat the 
beautiful Lady Flora Villiers, attired in a 
morning robe of loose airy texture. She 
looked even more charming than when last 
seen at the theater. She evidently expected 
some one, for her small feet kept beating a 
restless tattoo on the carpeted floor, while 
her jeweled fingers played with the rich tas- 
sels of her robe. Ever and anon her lovely 
eyes sought the cupid who with each tap of 
his golden arrow proclaimed the hour. 

“It is almost time they were here. I am 


216 


Darcy Piiickney 


wishing to see this Italian girl, Phil’s sister as 
he calls her. I wonder how my fair beauty 
will look beside her dark face; I suppose she 
will make an admirable foil. I told Phil not 
to bring her here, but his obstinacy prevailed. 
Ah ! here they come.” She arose to receive 
the visitors, warmly welcomed the gentle- 
man, and fondly kissed the girl. 

“You can find your room, Phil; I will take 
my little cousin to her room.” 

“And how do you like England, my little 
Inez?” 

“I cannot say that I am in love with Eng- 
land. I may like it after a while. Lady 
Flora.” 

“Do not ‘Lady’ me, child; call me cousin 
or Flora, and you will please me.” 

“I will try to say cousin,” said Inez, and 
then added, “Oh! you are so very lovely, 
lovelier than any one I have ever seen.” 

The haughty English lady seemed well 
pleased with the girl’s sincere admiration. 

“Do you think you can recover from your 
fatigue sufficiently to attend my birthnight 
ball?” 

“I am a stranger,” replied Inez. 

“That must not keep you away, I will 
chaperone you.” 

“Then I will attend with pleasure.” 

“Then that is settled ; and now as to what 
we will wear. I am blonde, a blue silk trim- 
med with lace and pearl will suit me. Your 


Darcy Pinckney 


217 

brunette beauty will look well if you are 
dressed in scarlet satin with trimmings of 
black lace and jet/' 

“The lace will suffice, cousin, I do not wish 
any trimmings of jet. I have a rose-colored 
silk that I will prepare.” 

“Ah! does not my dress look exquisite?” 
exclaimed the Lady Flora, as she stood be- 
fore the full length mirror scanning her slen- 
der, beautifully dressed figure. 

“No, it is you who are exquisite, nay, sur- 
passingly beautiful,” said the musical voice 
of Inez. “Oh! were I half so lovely how 
vain I would be.” 

“Half as lovely ! Why, Inez, child, you are 
perfectly splendid, a royal tulip, while I am 
only a poor little white daisy. Come,” she 
said, leading the girl to the mirror, “now 
which is more beautiful?” 

“Oh ! let me hide my dark face,” and Inez 
shrank back from the glass. 

“No, my dear, you must blush at your own 
loveliness,” and drawing her arm about the 
waist of the young Italian she drew her to 
her side. 

A very lovely picture they made standing 
there before the mirror, the one in her dress 
of blue silk, looped here and there with 
pearls, trimmed with flounces of cloud-like 
lace, the beautiful arms and shoulders round 
and snowy white, the throat delicate, the 
head superb, the face angelic, the golden 


218 


Darcy Pinckney 


hair curling around the fair brow and falling 
in burnished ringlets to her waist. Then 
turn to the small lithe figure at her side. 
The warm tropical loveliness is bewildering. 
Small and graceful, her figure was set off to 
advantage by an elegant dress of rose-col- 
ored silk trimmed with white point lace, the 
arms and shoulders shaded by folds of lace, 
The short, purple-black hair clustered in curls 
about the shapely head, the white teeth glit- 
tered between the thin crimson lips, and the 
large dark eyes were brilliant, while a flush 
passed over her face as she for the first time 
realized her own loveliness. 

‘T have made you blush at your own 
beauty. Come, we will go to the drawing- 
room. But have you no jewels, child?” 
clasping, while speaking, necklace and brace- 
lets of diamonds on her own fair neck and 
arms. 

'‘Yes,” and unfastening her jewel-case, Inez 
arrayed herself in jewels of such brilliancy 
that even the eyes of the court lady were for 
a moment dazzled. 

The young Italian clasped bracelets about 
her arms, a necklace around her dainty 
throat, whilst upon her dark hair she placed 
a coronet of gems set in golden filagree 
work, a coronet fit for a queen to wear; then 
a girdle of precious gems about her waist. 
With gentle courtesy she announced her readi- 
ness to enter the drawing-room. 


Darcy Pinckney 


219 


“Not while you have on that load of old- 
fashioned Dutch jewelry — where did you get 
those jewels, child?” 

“I do not care for the fashion. They were 
made in Florence, or rather,” she added sar- 
castically, “the filagree work was wrought 
there. And they were my mother’s.” 

With a haughty gesture she walked past 
the astonished English lady and descended 
the broad marble staircase, entering the 
drawing-room as her acquaintance of the 
evening, Eord Alfred Villiers, was an- 
nounced. A few minutes later Lady Flora 
swept into the room. 

“Let me compliment you, cousin, on your 
bewitching appearance to-night.” 

“Pshaw! Alfred, a truce to your compli- 
ments. Look at that headstrong girl ; she 
would appear in those heavy gems. She 
looks like an overdressed doll.” 

“Let me differ with you there. Lady 
Flora! Lost in admiration of the beautiful 
flower I had scarce noticed the gorgeous 
foliage. Yet I do not think those rare gems 
at all out of place, they are at once rich and 
unique.” 

The lady bit her lip with chagrin, for well 
she knew that her cousin was considered the 
most fastidious among the English aris- 
tocracy. 

“Is my uncle coming to-night, Alfred ?” 

“Yes, he and Marian will soon arrive.” 


220 


Darcy Pinckney 


Crowds of fashionables began pouring in 
and the haughty lady regained her compo- 
sure as she received the congratulations and 
gifts of her aristocratic friends. Poor little 
Inez had shrank into a corner of the bril- 
liantly lit apartment, the loneliest flower 
among them all, yet a scornful flash lit the 
dark eye, a haughty flush darkened the sweet 
face as she thought of Flora’s contemptuous 
words. 

“I feel,” she murmured, “as though some 
unknown evil threatened me. I have never 
felt so before. Why have I no one in all the 
wide world to care for me ?” 

“Sweet lady, let me plead then to be your 
friend. I promise rather to die than betray 
the trust. Come, please, and join me in this 
dance,” said Ford Alfred Villiers, with sweep- 
ing bow. 

Her movements were so light and graceful 
that she became the cynosure of all eyes. 

“Oh! how beautiful! how exquisite!” ex- 
claimed a sweet silvery voice, and Marian 
Villiers swept past, leaning on the arm of her 
father, a fine, noble-looking old man. 

“Who is it that you think so beautiful, 
my dear? I see a very nice looking guards- 
man there.” 

“Oh no, papa, what do I care for guards- 
men, be they ever so handsome? It is broth- 
er’s partner who I think is so charming.” 


Darcy Pinckney 


221 


‘‘Ah!” And as he spoke the gentleman’s 
face became pallid. 

“Are you ill, dear father?” 

“No, my child, the warm air of the room 
stifles me; yonder sweet face calls up past 
recollections. An old wound that I thought 
long since healed has reopened.” 

“Do you know her, then?” queried the 
lady with an air of surprise. 

“No, dear, I have never seen that sweet 
childish face before, yet it is very familiar. 
I will go on the balcony. You can mingle 
with the dancers for yonder comes your 
guardsman. So remembering the old adage 
about a third person, etc., I will make my 
exit.” And with a courtly bow to his gentle 
daughter the old nobleman left the room. 

Soon the Lady Marian was lost in the 
giddy mazes of the dance, being the partner 
of the guardsman, a handsome, though por- 
tionless, younger son of Lord George Pos- 
onby. Although without wealth, still Ed- 
ward Posonby was a general favorite in so- 
ciety, and was known to be the Lady Marian 
Villiers’ affianced husband. The noble old 
man had declared that he wished to see his 
English daisy happy, and as he had discerned 
real worth beneath the young man’s gay ex- 
terior, had readily given his consent, and in 
a short time the young girl would lay aside 
her title and become plain Mrs. Posonby. 

Alfred waited most assiduously upon the 


222 


Darcy Pinckney 


lovely Italian girl. She soon threw aside the 
constraint in her manner caused by her 
cousin’s cold words and chatted to the young 
man with a gay naivete that both charmed and 
pleased him. 

“I wish to introduce you , to my sister. You 
are about the same age, I think, and will be- 
come friends. Marian is very lovely, so gentle 
and kind. All who know her love her dearly. 

I have imagined that you resemble her. I see 
that she is now alone. Ah! she comes this 
way.” 

With graceful gallantry he introduced his 
sister to the young stranger. Then he said 
in an earnest tone, “Sister, I claim Miss Inez 
as my charge and will leave you the pleasure 
of her society for a short time.” 

“Lady Marian, I am sadly in need of 
friends. Will you be my friend?” And the 
dark eyes looked beseechingly into hers. 

“Yes, Inez, we will become friends at once, • 
even as my brother wishes, so let us banish 
all formality and be to each other Marian 
and Inez.” 

“I too will gladly banish ceremony, and 
will not feel so lonely.” 

“How long have you been in England?” 

“Only a few hours.” 

“Was the voyage a pleasant one?” 

“Oh ! no, I was so utterly lonesome. 
There was no one on board that I knew ex- 


Darcy Pinckney 


223 


cept my brother, and he is so reserved that 
he is no company for me.” 

“You have been in Italy, have you not, 
Inez?” 

“Yes, Marian, that lovely land was my 
home. Beneath the walls of a convent my 
happiest days were passed. Beneath that 
soft blue sky, among lovely flowers, my dear 
mamma sleeps. Last year brother Phil car- 
ried me to the United States. I was so sorry 
to leave the dear sisters who were so kind to 
me.” 

“Do you remember anything of your early 
life?” 

“I remember only that my mother was very 
beautiful, oh, so beautiful. Her name was 
Inez. My father was a handsome English- 
man, I cannot recollect him. I was a mere 
babe when he was taken away. Ah, lady, it 
was a sad story. Papa lost his life. After a 
time a Mr. Walker, who had loved mamma 
when she was a girl, came and they were 
married.” 

“And your own name, your father’s 
name ?” 

“I was too small to remember, but I have 
always been called by my stepbrother’s 
name, a whim of his, I think.” 

The conversation was interrupted by the 
return of Lord Alfred, who claimed Inez as 
his partner for a quadrille that was being 
formed. 


224 


Darcy Pinckney 


On the large vine-wreathed balcony stood 
a couple earnestly engaged in conversation. 
A lovely picture the fairy-like girl made in 
her fanciful dress of blue silk, blonde lace 
and pearls. She was very lovely, as beauti- 
ful as an angel. The glorious moonlight 
glimmering through the open vines threw a 
heavenly radiance on her fair young head 
surrounded by its wealth of clustering curls. 
Her companion stood gazing with admira- 
tion upon the exquisite picture before him. 

“Lady Flora,” — and the tones of his manly 
voice became low and tremulous as he called 
her name — “Lady Flora, I have waited long 
for this hour. I am not vain enough to think 
that from among your many suitors you 
would single me out as the one on whom to 
bestow the priceless blessing of your love, 
and yet at times I have felt that you were 
not entirely indifferent to me, have dreamed 
that some day you might learn to love me. 
I have waited long. I promised not to speak 
of love for a stated period, yet your bewitch- 
ing loveliness has made me forget all else 
except that you stand beside me and that I 
love you better than all on earth. Again I 
ask, will you be my bride? I will be so de- 
voted, your every wish shall be granted. It 
will be the object of my life to surround you 
with every blessing, to make you happy and 
contented.” 

The cold hand remained passive in his 


Darcy Pinckney 


225 


clasp, as she replied, “Lord Harry Neville, I 
do not wish to marry yet.” 

“Flora Villiers ! do not make me lose faith 
in womankind by giving me to understand 
that you have only been trifling with me. 
Tell me anything else you choose,” and his 
voice quivered with intense emotion. 

“Harry, you accuse me wrongfully! Have 
I ever yet acquired the name of a flirt?” she 
asked. 

“Forgive me,” he replied, “I scarcely 
know what I am saying. Yet only tell me 
that you love me, that until you are willing 
to become my bride you will remain faithful 
to me.” 

“I would that I could promise you this, 
and yet it would be unfaithful to do so, for I 
feel that I cannot fulfil that promise,” replied 
the girl with a tremor of feeling in her voice. 

“And why?” he asked. 

“Because, Lord Harry, I esteem you too 
much to give you the promise of a love that 
I cannot bestow. While I only esteem, I do 
not, can never love you.” 

“Oh I Flora, unsay those cold, cruel words. 
Together have we grown from infancy, we 
played together in the glad days of child- 
hood, the flowers of your choice were always 
mine, the blue of your beautiful eyes was al- 
ways my favorite color. Have I not always, 
from a mere child, wor3hiped your angelic 
15 


226 


Darcy Pinckney 


loveliness? Have you not always possessed 
an influence almost magical over me? And 
now can you calmly tell me that I am not 
loved?” 

“Lord Neville,” was the haughty reply, 
“you are no judge, I no prisoner at the bar, 
that I should sufifer this questioning from 
you, yet I will say this for your satisfac- 
tion: I do not love you, have never loved 
you, have never for a moment even thought 
of bestowing upon you the priceless blessing 
of my love.” 

“Then I am to carry in my heart as re- 
membrance of my slighted affection, that the 
only woman I have ever loved has cruelly 
jilted, then taunted me! Ah! do not look so 
scornful, lady, my pride equals your own, 
and now it is fully aroused. This love which 
bloomed so freshly in my heart a moment 
since I will crush out although that heart 
should break. Even as you are toying with 
the immortelles that I gave you, so have you 
toyed with and destroyed my life. Farewell, 
lady, you do not give me the blessing of your 
love; for this I thank you; a faithless heart 
I do not want.” 

With a sarcastic smile upon his boyish, 
handsome face, he bowed to his companion 
and left her. 

“Ha, ha! Cousin Flora, the play was a 
splendid one. Will not some terrible tragedy 


Darcy Pinckney 


227 


follow? Suicide on the gentleman’s part, 
tears and a broken heart on the lady’s ?” 

“I do not like this style of conversation, 
Phil ! Men seldom commit suicide, women 
as rarely die of broken hearts.” 

“And yet,” replied Phil Walker, “the man 
you have so scornfully rejected is made of 
better stuff than most men. Could I but ad- 
mire nobleness as I once did! for I, too, had 
an appreciative mind for all that was noble 
and good before I became what I am,” and 
his voice grew strangely hoarse. As if 
ashamed of his emotion he hastily continued, 
“In two years’ time you will not know Lord 
Neville. This will change him either into a 
true nobleman or a very demon. I am in- 
clined to think, aye. Flora, to hope, that it 
will change him to the former. Yet you did 
well in rejecting this princely offer.” 

“Of course I did, Phil! Pshaw! I could 
not love that boy. When mere children his 
lover-like attentions wearied me.” 

Thus spoke the heartless beauty. 

“Ah well ! my cousin, the peerless, as you 
are styled, I suppose this offer was nothing 
to you at whose feet so many ducal coronets 
have been placed. At your proud smile so 
many suitors bow in homage that I suppose 
your ambition soars to reach a crozvn. Ah ! 
a crown would well become that pearly brow, 
for your lovely, proud face is royalty itself, 
dear cousin.” 


228 


Darcy Pinckney 


“Phil, have done with this trifling. I am 
heartily sick of it. Have you a man’s soul 
or that of a trifler?” 

“The latter appellation would suit us both, 
I think,” was the calm reply. 

“Have you become weary of dancing, or 
are you so Americanized that you scorn our 
English beauties?” 

“Oh! no, fair lady, I am not so dull of 
comprehension as not to understand that the 
fairest, most lovely ladies in the world are 
those same high-born dames assembled in 
yonder halls. Yet you would deem it flat- 
tery were I to say that the most beautiful 
of them all stands beside me in the delicate 
form of the young Lady of Villiers.” 

“Thanks, cousin ; yet a truce to your com- 
pliments, Phil, for they bode no good. Your 
flattery cannot cajole me as it did the pretty 
Italian girls with whom you flirted so merci- 
lessly, and some of whom flirted with you in 
turn. Ah! Phil, I think there was a little 
Spanish lady, Veronica by name, whom you 
would always call Inez. She was a gem of 
innocence and grace and I loved the sweet 
child. You who taunt me with flirting have 
surely forgotten that once you had a slight 
penchant for the game of winning and cast- 
ing away hearts. What became of the 
lovely, childlike maiden? Did a certain gay, 
reckless, yet at that time noble, cousin of 
mine elope with and then abandon the gentle 


Darcy Pinckney 


229 


girl to misery and shame? Or did her par- 
ents, strict Catholics as they were, spirit 
their daughter away to some remote convent 
to shield her from her lover?” Turning to 
him she placed her hand on his arm, but 
started as her glance fell on his face, rigid in 
agony and made ghastly by the pale moon- 
light which rested on his features. 

“For Heaven’s sake, why this stony 
grief?” she exclaimed. 

Thrice he essayed to speak, but in vain. 
Finally in a hard, unnatural voice, he jerked 
forth, rather than spoke, these words, 
“Flora, in the name of God, for His sake if 
not for mine, never allude to the past. I was 
a bright happy boy living in the smile of my 
beautiful little mother, as I called my father’s 
second wife, caring for nothing but the 
beauty of my little sister. My father, who 
was stern to others, yet kind to me, died 
first, then gentle mother, the broken-hearted 
wife — for her tender spirit could as ill bear 
up under my father’s stern nature as a tiny 
craft in a rough and boisterous sea could 
keep from being overwhelmed by the surg- 
ing waves, like a tender vine which the oak 
no longer supports — drooped and died. My 
stepsister was sent to a convent, and I, boy 
as I was, made a solemn promise to that dy- 
ing mother to befriend her child, her little 
Inez. You ask what became of that prom- 
ise? Ah! I broke that sacred vow. It is 


230 


Darcy Pinckney 


only in excitement or in the planning of 
some hellish plot from which the boy Phil 
Walker would have shuddered, but to which 
the man Phil Walker has become accus- 
tomed, that I forget that broken vow. Yet 
were I as sure of the great Redeemer’s 
mercy as I am of the forgiveness of that gen- 
tle angel in her heavenly home, I would 
know that an insulted God could extend pity 
to even such a sinner as myself. My crimes 
have been many, but I am willing to suffer in 
expiation of my sins, aye, even to suffer as 
he did who spat in the sorrow-laden Sav- 
iour’s face. Yes, most willingly would I wan- 
der for the rest of my life, or on and on for- 
ever, if by so doing I could wash my soul 
white as it once was, or if in all honor I could 
wear my own dead father’s name. You men- 
tioned Veronica,” and again were the words 
almost wrenched from the man’s ashy lips as a 
spasm of pain contorted his face, “ah! to 
see her was to love her, to know her was to 
adore, to worship her. Why, Flora Villiers, 
have you cruelly awakened old memories? 
You have applied the torture; I will not 
shrink from the rack. Yes, I loved Veronica 
Mendoza as boys seldom love. She came 
from Spain. Instead of the cold hauteur so 
usual with the Spanish, or the fierce vindic- 
tiveness of her proud race, she had gentle, 
winning ways, a fresh, unstudied manner, a 
sweet, natural simplicity that won admira- 


Darcy Pinckney 


231 


tion from all and that entirely conquered 
my fierce boyish heart. We met often. She, 
just blooming into girlhood, I a gay, joyous 
lad, not yet entered upon manhood. It was 
the same old story. We loved. I lived for 
her witching smile, her clear flute-like voice 
was the only music I cared to hear, her glor- 
ious eyes were the day stars of my dreams. 
She confessed her love when I pressed my 
suit. I thought her more beautiful than 
ever as tides of crimson surged over her dark 
face. She swore to be mine, kissed the 
cross-handled hilt of the little stiletto with- 
out which a Spanish lady is never seen, and 
then folding her mantilla about her slender 
figure, bade me good-by. I caught her to 
my bosom and imprinted a kiss upon her 
sweet lips. Another moment and she was 
gone. Need I tell you that I love her still, 
that for her dear sake I curse the hour in 
which I was born? I curse it because I am 
wicked, yet I have been deeply wronged. 
Oh! Flora, I have been both wretched and 
such a sinner that years of penance would 
not make me fit to meet her. Yet why speak 
about her? She, too, broke her vow; she 
was false to me ; they made her wed another. 
Sometimes I feel like flying from the haunts 
of men and striving to make my peace with 
God. I have not been happy since I was a 
boy.” 

His voice grew hoarser and he buried his 


232 


Darcy Pinckney 


face in his hands, while great sobs shook his 
frame. 

“Keep this good angel by you, Phil. Ah ! 
it would be worth more than all the paltry 
gold for which your youthful soul was bar- 
tered. But, Phil, what became of this Span- 
ish girl of such rare beauty?” she asked, and 
a baleful light shone in the girl’s beautiful 
eyes. 

“Do not ask me, Plora, suffice it to say 
that she is lost to me. I have never seen her 
since that parting hour.” 

“One question more, and answer me 
truly,” and the small gloved hand clasped 
with passionate fierceness the arm upon 
which it rested, “do you love her now?” 

“Heaven is my witness when I say that I 
will love her until my dying day.” 

A shadow of pain rested on the girl’s fair 
face as she said in a constrained voice, “You 
have both sinned and suffered. Ah! I feel 
sorry for you. I, too, have sinned and am 
beginning to suffer. You can repent. I 
must not. I have no heart to break, what 
care I how many hearts are broken? So I 
will still sin on by adding to the already 
lengthy list of conquests that I have made.” 

“And, Flora, you will persist in toying 
with the love of this young lord?” 

“That is my own affair, and in this I will 
be guided by no one. We had better drop 
this subject by ending our tete-a-tete at once. 


Darcy Pinckney 


233 


You had better seek a partner,” and she 
turned to leave him. 

“They are playing a Spanish madrigal ; now 
the music is changed; it is a German waltz. 
You could dance them when a child. Will 
you dance this one with me, Flora, in mem- 
ory of those happy, gladsome days?” 

“Yes, Phil; ah! we were fond of dancing 
with each other,” she said, as she placed her 
hand within his arm. 

Harry Neville would have given his right 
hand for the smile that she bestowed on her 
dark, handsome cousin. He led her to the 
ball-room, where they were soon the center 
of an admiring throng. Couple after couple 
left the floor to watch the handsome pair, 
who were whirling round and round in all 
the voluptuous intricacies of a German 
waltz. When the music ceased he led her to 
a seat. The band again struck up, this time 
an Italian tune. “Dance again!” exclaimed 
several voices. “We are not theatrical per- 
formers,” was the haughty reply. 

It was a silvery strain of music, made even 
sweeter by the accompaniment of an ex- 
quisitely modulated voice that rose and fell 
with the instruments, now thrilling soft and 
low, then full and firm. Even the stern 
Italian performers on the harp, paused to 
gaze at the lovely little tropical flower from 
whence issued the magical, birdlike notes. 
It was Inez who, for the moment forgetting 


234 


Darcy Pinckney 


England, the ball-room, and even Lord Vil- 
liers, upon hearing the music that reminded 
her of her childhood’s home in Italy, was 
again a happy child in her mother’s beauti- 
ful garden and she the pet of all who knew 
her. Now the music takes a warbling turn 
as if the very birds were whispering of 
heaven. ‘‘Mamma, I dance.” These words 
Villiers heard her whisper as bowing grace- 
fully she left her seat and whirled around the 
room in an easy, graceful manner. She went 
through all the figures of a dance then 
known in Italy only, a dance, beautiful, yet 
difficult to perform. Her dancing was per- 
fect. The picture was a gorgeous one. The 
large, brilliantly lit saloon, crowds of beauti- 
ful women dressed in silks and satins rich 
and rare, the young noblemen in their dress 
suits, the flash of jewels, the waving of flow- 
ers that decked the room, all served as a 
background for the centerpiece of the nat- 
ural picture. Ah! yes, very rare and lovely 
was the picture. The dark, lovely child, for 
she seemed scarce woman, in her soft rich 
dress, her arms and neck sparkling with 
those old-time gems, the short purple-black 
hair clustering about her head, the rosebud 
mouth, the pink seashell ears, the large dark 
eyes that outshone the radiant gems she 
wore, the petite figure, the tiny feet flitting 
here and there, all combined to make her a 
picture worthy an artist’s notice. Those who 


Darcy Pinckney 


235 


looked felt as though they could look for- 
ever. 

“It was thus she used to dance,” mur- 
mured old Lord Villiers. 

“Who, papa?” 

“Oh! it was only a memory of my boy- 
hood,” he replied, and a flush passed over 
his usually calm face. 

“It is something that pains you, papa I” 

“It will always be a painful memory, child. 
I will tell you all some day. That sweet face 
cannot be connected with my past, yet it 
seems so strangely alike,” he said, then was 
startled as a thunder of applause shook the 
hall. 

The fairy dancer made a graceful bow and 
was moving away. A hundred bouquets 
were showered at her feet. Selecting one, 
the tiniest of all, a bunch of sweet blue vio- 
lets and geraniums, she fastened it in her 
girdle and bowing to the company, said, “I 
thank you for your praise, yet I did not 
dance to win it, therefore I do not merit it. 
The piece of bird-music was my mother’s 
favorite air. I remember only the music and 
the steps. She taught me both. I have not 
danced to the music since mamma died until 
to-night. And I felt so near to her then that 
I danced for her dear sake.” 

The brilliant eyes became moistened with 
unshed tears as with gentle gravity she 


236 


Darcy Pinckney 


passed to her seat leaning on the arm of Al- 
fred Villiers. 

A few moments later the Lady Flora 
whispered in her ear, “Phil speaks of leaving 
England to-morrow. Will you retire now? 
He bade me say that you would be weary if 
you did not rest before morning.” 

“Thank you,” replied the girl. “I can 
find my room and will gladly retire in a few 
moments.” 

A sigh escaped her as the lady moved 
away. 

“What is the matter, sweet lady? Has my 
cousin brought bad news?” 

“She tells me that I leave here to-mor- 
row.” 

“Ah! that is sad indeed!” he replied, a 
cloud resting on his handsome features. 

“I fear that unhappiness awaits me, that 
danger threatens.” 

“Sweet lady, let me know your fear, no 
arm in all England will more willingly aid 
you than mine.” 

“Ah ! perhaps my fears are foolish. I will 
banish them. Let me thank you for the 
pleasure that I have had to-night among 
strangers and in a strange land. The mem- 
ory of your kindness will linger with me al- 
ways. Will you accept this?” With child- 
like gracefulness she fastened to the left 
lapel of his coat a small jeweled pin, a tiny 


Darcy Pinckney 


237 


heart-shaped ruby, encircled by pearl and 
added, ‘‘Good-by, I may not see you again/' 

“I must see you,” he replied, “if only for 
a few moments, before you go away.” 

“No, I fear it will be impossible,” she an- 
swered. 

“I will wear the ruby always, and remem- 
ber that your heart is in my keeping,” he 
said, as he pressed a kiss on her dainty hand. 
“Will you promise to write to me and to 
send me your address wherever you may 
go? Promise me this, little one.” 

Writing his name on an ivory tablet he 
offered it to her. Accepting it she replied, 
“Yes, I promise to write to you as soon as 
I reach my destination and I will also send 
you my address.” 

“God keep you in safety then until we 
meet,” he said as he pressed one small hand 
within his own. 

“Ah! here is your sister. You will go 
with me to my room, dear Marian.” She 
passed an arm about the waist of the Eng- 
lish girl and they moved away. 

At early dawn a traveling carriage drew 
up before the door of Lady Flora’s residence. 
A moment later Phil Walker and his sister 
were seated within, when the window by 
which Inez was seated was quickly opened, 
a man’s hand grasped hers, and the voice of 
Villiers in whispered accents reached her ear, 
“Inez, dear one, can I assist you?” 


238 


Darcy Pinckney 


“No, Alfred, good-by. God bless you; 
if—” 

The sentence was left unfinished, as the 
driver started his horses. But the young 
lord had time to press a kiss on the ungloved 
hand and to leave in the same little hand a 
note containing a ring of brilliants. The ele- 
gant ring, a circlet of diamonds, was soon 
glittering on one of her slender fingers. 

“Inez, are your jewels safe?” 

“Yes, brother, quite safe.” 

Laying her head back she closed her eyes 
and, wearied out, soon slept. An hour later 
she awoke, and was surprised to find her 
head resting on her brother’s shoulder, and 
more surprised to feel his hand gently 
smoothing her hair. It was something un- 
usual for he had not caressed her for years, 
though she could remember when she was 
his pet and plaything. It was this early 
memory and her mother’s dying injunction, 
“Don’t leave Phil, he has been a good son 
to me,” that made her cling closely to him. 
The old tender feeling again came over her ; 
she felt that he was not all bad; she would 
be kind and loving to him, even as her nurse 
had bade her to be. 

“Have I slept long, dear brother?” she 
gently asked. 

“Not very long, little sister, though it has 
seemed a long time to me as I have felt 


Darcy Pinckney 


239 


lonely. I tried not to awake you for you 
seemed so weary and rested so sweetly.” 

“You are a kind, thoughtful brother and 
I will never displease, you again,” she said 
as she wound her arms about his neck. 
“Only be kind to me, brother Phil, pet me as 
you used to long ago. I have only you to 
love me, and mamma loved you so much. 
Oh! brother, let the old days come again,” 
and she nestled her head on his bosom. 

“Little sister,” he replied, “I swear to you 
that from this hour I will be a brother to 
you both in word and deed. Forgive me for 
the past. Let the future speak for itself. 
Ah 1 Inez, I have suffered much pain during 
last night. I have viewed my life in its hid- 
eous, naked sinfulness. Can your pure heart 
feel aught but abhorrence for me?” And he 
bowed his head until his hair mingled with 
her dark curls, while sobs shook his frame. 

“There, brother darling, I do feel that 
you have suffered. Do not grieve. We will 
try to help each other. Indeed I do love 
you very dearly. You have made me happy 
again. I’ve been too hasty and passionate 
at times. You will forgive me and help me 
to conquer my wicked temper, won’t you?” 
and she coaxed him until a smile rested on 
his dark face. 

“You have a grand look when you smile, 
brother, and I am so glad that you will let 


240 


Darcy Pinckney 


me be your own little sister again. And my 
old nurse, dear brother?” 

“She is safe and shall be cared for,” he re- 
plied. “I fear that you will hate me, Inez, 
when I say that I have squandered much of 
your fine property.” 

“Oh, no ; lam too happy to do aught else 
but love you. I care not for the property, I 
am young and strong and can work for a 
living,” and she tenderly caressed his hair. 

“I would not allow you to work, little one. 
I have not been base enough to take all. 
You have still a princely fortune, and I will 
repay every penny that I have ever squan- 
dered,” and he kissed the upturned brow. 

“No, dear brother ; or if you will consider 
yourself in debt, let me name the only pay- 
ment I will take — love and kind words.” 

“My darling, you do not know what you 
ask.” 

“Yes, indeed I do, brother Phil, and one- 
half of my landed property is yours, so you 
had a right to part with what was your own; 
and a share of all I possess, even to my jew- 
els, I intend to give you. Oh, brother, did 
you think I could ever forget your kindness 
to my mother?” 

He told her of his past life and her tears 
mingled freely with his. 

“I am so sorry,” she murmured, “you 
must find Veronica and give me a sister.” 


Darcy Pinckney 


241 


“She is lost to me forever,” he replied, and 
then sat as though buried in deep thought. 

“Whither are we bound, brother?” 

“To the Convent of St. Frances Des 
Moines.” 

“ Oh ! I am so glad, that is a treat. I will 
see some of m}^ school friends again.” 

“Would you like to stay there for a few 
months, until I could fit up a home for you ?” 
he asked. 

“Yes, brother, I know that Sister Agatha 
and the dear old Mother Superior will be 
glad to have me with them again. I used 
to be happy there, yet I do not like to think 
that you will leave me.” 

“It will be only for a short time; you must 
try to be happy.” 

“I will try. When will we reach Dover?” 

“Late to-morrow evening; next morning 
we cross the Channel and go over into 
France.” 

“At what place do we land?” 

“At Dunkirk ; from there we go to Amiens, 
then on to Paris, where we will spend a week. 
Then Melun is directly on the route. We pass 
through both Nevers and Lyons, then to Val- 
ence on the Rhone. At Arles we go by water 
to Tortosa and from there to Zaragossa. Then 
you are at your journey’s end. I thought that 
you would like the route I have sketched out 
best.” 

“Indeed I am thankful for your kindness,” 

i6 


242 


Darcy Pinckney 


she affectionately replied. “I will meet some 
of my old schoolmates at the convent and 
will be glad to stay with them some time. I 
hope, though, brother, that it will not be 
very long till you return to take me with 
you.” 

will try to come for you as soon as I 
can prepare a home for you. In the mean- 
time you can resume your studies. I wish 
you to excel in instrumental music. You 
must take lessons both on the harp and the 
piano.^’ 

“Yes, brother, and may I resume my 
painting lessons?” 

“Certainly, Inez, and anything else that 
you desire. I wish you to be proficient in 
all that you study.” 

“Never fear, dear brother, I have an in- 
centive to study now and will strive to be 
all that you wish.” 

“One thing promise me. Do not let 
those sisters, nuns, or whatever they are 
called, induce you to become a Roman 
Catholic.” 

“I very readily promise you that, brother 
Phil, the more so because I am an Episco- 
palian and wish to be confirmed as soon as I 
reach my eighteenth year.” 

After a pleasant journey of a few weeks 
they reached their destination. Inez was 
gladly welcomed by both the Mother Su- 
perior and the nuns, and Mr. Walker re- 
sumed his journey alone. 


CHAPTER XV 


Great was the disappointment of both 
the countess and her daughter as the night 
wore on and the expected guest did not 
come. 

The next morning as the elder lady was 
hastening into the apartment old Lugi ex- 
claimed, “My lady, a cortege is coming up 
the driveway! It is my master, the noble 
count. Oh! dear mistress, come quickly.” 

The lady sprang up and hurried through 
the door just as four Roman soldiers, bear- 
ing a litter upon which lay the figure of a 
man, neared the veranda. An officer and a 
handsome, youthful man sprang from their 
horses, and doffing their hats to the lady, 
lifted the man from the litter and placed him 
on his feet. A moment more and the arms 
of the countess were about him. 

“My husband! Carlos!” she exclaimed, 
“do we meet at last?” 

He threw one arm around her slender 
waist as he pressed her to his breast. 

“Inez, wife, I have longed for this hour. 
My darling, I am very weak.” 

Reeling, he would have fallen but for the 
watchfulness of the younger man, who had 
traveled with him from Rome as physician. 


244 


Darcy Pinckney 


He caught him in his arms, carried him 
through the veranda into the large, airy 
drawing-room and gently placed him upon a 
lounge near a large oriel window that 
opened to the west and through which the 
wind came in fresh gusts. Sitting on a low, 
cushioned ottoman near the lounge, the 
countess drew his head fondly to her bosom. 

“Ah! sweet wife, I have yearned so long 
for this resting place. I went away long ago, 
yet you look as youthful, as lovely, as the 
day that you became my bride. I alone am 
changed,” and he wearily passed his hand 
across his brow. 

“Do not try to think, dear, you will never 
leave me again. Here,” as a light form came 
and stood closely by her side, “is our daugh- 
ter. She was a wee baby girl, you remem- 
ber.” 

“Yes! and we called her — Ah! let me 
see,” and his brow twitched as he strove to 
remember, “Ah! yes, little Nina, your very 
image, Inez.” 

Kneeling, the young girl kissed him again 
and again as she tenderly stroked the soft 
hair from his broad brow. 

“We are so glad to have you with us, dear 
father. We will soon get you well and 
strong again, mamma and I.” 

He looked longingly at them both and 
seemed to be striving to recall some memory 
of the past. 


Darcy Pinckney 


245 


*‘Why did I go away, Inez? We were so 
happy, and the baby so fair. Why did I go?” 

“Some bad men took you away, dear fa- 
ther. But you must not talk any more, you 
must rest. There, look at mamma and rest 
quietly until you feel less weary. Mother 
dear, I will bring my father some refresh- 
ments.” 

Raising his head with courteous grace the 
invalid said, “Colonel Bendois, let me pre- 
sent you to my wife and daughter.” Then 
turning to the young physician he said, 
“Doctor Essex, Mrs. and Miss Mendoza,” and 
fell back exhausted. 

“Gentlemen, will you take seats on the ver- 
anda? Please excuse me while I go to order 
refreshments.” 

The seneschal entered with a tray of 
tempting fruit and a silver goblet of wine and 
placed them on a table near his master. 

“Ah ! Lugi, old friend, time has dealt 
hardly too with you, yet you were a man 
when I was a gay, wild boy, long before I 
knew of the sorrow of my house.” 

“There, Carlos, you must rest, dear. 
Hand me the wine, good Eugi.” 

Placing the goblet to her husband’s lips 
she held it until the last drop was drained, 
then drawing his head to her bosom she 
soothed him to sleep as though he had been 
a tired child. 

“Colonel Bendois, will you walk into the 


246 


Darcy Pinckney 


hall? Come, Doctor Essex.” The graceful 
girl led the way. The officer and the doc- 
tor stood at the head of the table and the 
soldiers ranged themselves at each side. A 
sumptuous collation was spread before them. 
Fruits of all kinds in cut-glass and silver 
dishes, delicious cakes, wine from Germany 
and France, iced sherbet, sparkling lemon- 
ade, fragrant tea, steaming coffee, the deli- 
cate meats of both fish and pheasant, and 
light and spongy bread. The table was cov- 
ered with dainties of all kinds. The repast 
finished the lady led the way to the parlor. 
The men were soon sauntering about the 
lawn, some admiring the flowers, others with 
the freedom and ease characteristic to sol- 
dier life, reclining beneath the large shade 
trees. 

The colonel and the doctor seated them- 
selves in the parlor. 

“Excuse me for a few moments, gentle- 
men,” said Nina as she entered the room 
and neared her father’s couch. 

“He sleeps, my daughter!” 

“Ah! I am so glad that he rests quietly, 
dear mamma,” and she lovingly bent and 
kissed his pallid face. 

“Are our guests gone?” 

“No, mamma, I must return to entertain 
them.” 

“Are you a politician. Miss Mendoza?” 
asked Doctor Essex as he smilingly pointed 


Darcy Pinckney 2?7 

to the pile of newspapers scattered over the 
table. 

“No,” she replied, “I am not exactly a 
politician, yet I like to keep up with public 
events as they transpire in America, so 
mamma takes several of the leading papers 
and journals. Do you think. Doctor, that 
Mr. Lincoln will be elected?” 

“Without the shadow of a doubt he will 
be elected and by an overwhelming major- 
ity.” 

A shade of vexation crossed the lady’s 
face as she quickly said, “Please give me 
your reasons for thinking so.” 

“I will do so with pleasure,” he replied. 
“He is the only candidate nominated by the 
North while the South has two candidates in 
the field, therefore the votes of the South 
will be divided while those of the North will 
be unanimous and Lincoln will be elected.” 

A frown flitted over the lady’s brow as she 
sadly said, “Yes, I understand. Then, again, 
so much chicanery will be used by the 
North to obtain votes. Do you think there 
will be war if Mr. Lincoln is elected?” 

“Yes! and I for one will gladly welcome 
the coming strife.” 

“You would then return to America?” 

“Yes, lady; and most joyously would I 
fight in defence of the South. My home is 
in Virginia and on the soil of the Old Do- 
minion State I would like to carry out her 


248 


Darcy Pinckney 


motto by dealing death to the tyrants. The 
flag should be black and the battle cry, 
‘Guerre a Toutrance, guerre a mort.' ” 

“When the time comes I will give you my 
prayers, and God speed.’’ 

“Your sympathy, then, is with the South?” 

“Yes, were I a man and had a thousand 
lives I would gladly give them all, if need 
be, in her defence.” 

“God bless you, lady, for your sympathy 
with my native land.” 

Six weeks later the Count de Mendoza on 
his dying bed took a last long adieu of his 
wife and daughter. His mind had been re- 
stored to all its wonted vigor, his voice had 
gained its former wondrous sweetness. 

“Wife, what time is it?” 

Glancing at the ormolu clock, she ans- 
wered, “It is near four o’clock, dear.” 

“Ah! Inez, I am growing weary.” 

“Do you feel any better, my darling?” 
she asked, and she caressed his soft hair as 
she gazed with sad, loving eyes on his fast 
paling face. 

“Yes, dear, I am getting stronger too, 
yet I feel that death is rapidly approaching. 
I have had such a sweet dream, a glimpse of 
Heaven. I thought I walked in at the pearly 
gate and down the golden street. The cool 
wind from the crystal sea fanned my brow. 
I came to the great white throne and bowed 
before the King of Kings. A glorious ray 


Darcy Pinckney 


249 


from the emerald bow that spanned the crys- 
tal sea shone round Him. I was given a 
blessing, the blessing of the One-in-Three. 
Then my dream was ended.” 

“It was a beautiful dream, love, you must 
rest a little now. I want to get you well 
again, my darling. When you get strong 
enough we will go traveling and I will bring 
you back perfectly restored to health. Then 
we will make you happy again.” Her gentle 
eyes filled with tears as she pressed passion- 
ate kisses on his wan face. 

“No, dearest, I will never get well, it is 
only strength imparted by the coming of 
the Lord’s messenger. Do not weep, dar- 
ling, you, too, will come into the golden 
street. I will await your coming, will wait 
there by the pearly gate, you will not fail 
me. To me you have ever been true. To- 
night I will see the sunset, beyond those 
purple clouds, for the last time. I am not 
afraid to go, darling, it will be so pleasant to 
watch for you there. Do not weep, my 
Inez,” as he clasped her fondly to him. 
“Nina, daughter, you must take care of 
your mother. I have been buoyed up with 
the hope that our boy would come, if he does 
not — but hark! there are horse’s feet. Oh! 
merciful God, am I to see my son? Blessed 
be Thy holy name for answering this, my 
last prayer.” 

A tall form shaded the doorway. For a 


250 


Darcy Pinckney 


moment the young man, plumed hat in hand, 
stood there, gazing upon the solemn scene, 
then rushed forward, crying, “Father, oh! my 
father,” and kneeling beside him he pressed 
his face to that of the dying man. 

“My son, little Carlos,” gently murmured 
the ashen lips, as one feeble, trembling hand 
rested on the young man’s raven hair. 

He folded his mother and sister in a lov- 
ing embrace, for some secret intuition whis- 
pered that they were his long absent rela- 
tives. 

Even as the sick man had predicted, his 
spirit passed away before the sun’s good- 
night parting floated from the purple west. 
His last words were, “Good-night, kiss me, 
Inez. He gives me ‘rest, eternal rest 1’ ” 
And then the weary spirit took its flight. 

“Carlos, my husband!” A wail of bitter 
anguish rang through the room, as she fell 
in a swoon across the inanimate form. 

Nina controlled her own grief though it 
almost broke her heart to witness her moth- 
er’s sorrow. 

“ ‘He giveth His beloved sleep,’ so do not 
give way thus, dearest mother,” she said. 

Carlos helped her to win their mother 
from her grief. He was very like his father, 
so much so that she would gaze upon his 
handsome face, then turn away to weep. 

Several weeks later Dr. Essex called to 
pay the family a farewell visit. On taking 


Darcy Pinckney 


251 


his leave he said, ‘‘Have you any letters or 
messages that you wish conveyed to your 
American friends ? Lincoln has been elected 
and war declared. I wish to get there be- 
fore the fighting begins. I fear it is already 
going on. Perhaps, Miss Nina, you are 
guardian angel to some gallant rebel, for 
such we Southrons are now termed. If so 
shall I seek him out and give him your best 
wishes?” 

“No!” she replied, “to you have I given 
my God-speed, even as I will ever pray for 
your safety. You can give my regards to 
Harry and Herman Delville, also to Adrian 
Surry. It will not be any trouble as they 
live near your home in Virginia. When do 
you leave Italy?” 

“In an hour,” was the reply. 

Strongly was Nina tempted to send a let- 
ter to Ernest, but pride forbade. He had 
not written for so long, already was she for- 
gotten. “Why,” she mentally queried, 
“should she care for him?” Yet as the days 
went by his image became more deeply im- 
printed on her heart. 

“You will let us hear from you some- 
times?” she said to the doctor. 

“Yes, Miss Nina, I shall hope to number 
you among my correspondents. Will you 
write to me in reply to my letters ?” he 
eagerly asked. 

“With pleasure I” she replied. She did not 


252 


Darcy Pinckney 


notice the grave earnestness of his manner 
or the flush of joy that well became his hand- 
some features. Her heart, her thoughts 
were far away with him who had given her 
the ring that encircled her finger. 

“I will send you papers and anything else 
I can get that will prove of interest.’" He 
bade her adieu and murmured as he bent 
over her hand, ‘‘After the war is over I will 
hasten to lay my sword at my lady’s feet, 
for I will strive for honor for your sweet 
sake. Then, lady, good-by !” 

Before she could speak or undeceive him, 
his lips had been pressed on her hand and 
he was gone. 

Yet it was with regret that she saw him 
go, he was so manly and refined, so much 
superior to the young Italian gentry with 
whom she had become acquainted. She felt 
that the absence of his society would be a 
loss to her mother and brother as much as 
to herself. With sorrow she thought of his 
farewell words. She had not even dreamed 
that he had felt more than friendly toward 
her. She knew now that he loved her, and 
she earnestly prayed that among the ardu- 
ous duties of camp-life he would forget her. 

A few weeks after the departure of Dr. 
Essex, Carlos came, flushed and excited, 
into his mother’s and sister’s presence. 

“Mother, darling, I must go! The revo- 
lution in America has commenced; brave 


Darcy Pinckney 


253 


hearts and strong arms are needed; Jeffer- 
son Davis has been proclaimed president 
and the southern people array themselves 
under his guidance to strike for God and 
liberty. A battle at Manassas has been 
fought, the southern troops were victorious, 
yet with a heavy loss of both men and offi- 
cers. Duty bids me seek and take sides with 
the land of my sister’s adoption. Will you 
not bid me go, dear mother?” Turning to 
Nina, he said, “Plead in my behalf, sweet 
sister.” 

“Oh ! my son, my noble boy,” the mother 
cried, “I cannot give you up.” 

A troubled look passed over the eager, 
boyish face. In a sad tone he said, “I would 
not go, mother dear, without your consent, 
so we will say no more about it.” 

The grieved look which had flitted over 
her son’s face had no‘t escaped the loving 
eyes of the fond mother, and in her own 
room the same night love and duty strug- 
gled with each other. Fierce was the strife 
but duty conquered. 

“Why,” mentally queried the lady, 
“should I forbid him to go? I will bid him 
go join those brave men who are standing 
forth so nobly to vindicate their rights. It 
is, as he said, the land of his sister’s adop- 
tion. Who then has a better right to strike 
a blow in her behalf than that sister’s only 
brother. Yes! in that glorious land my 


254 


Darcy Pinckney 


girl found a home; among those chivalrous 
warm-hearted people she found friends ; 
under the stars of the southern sky she grew 
from delicate babyhood to lovely woman- 
hood. Should I keep her daring brother 
from defending what have been and may 
again be her rights? Yet it is very hard to 
give him up.” 

The next morning as the youth stood in 
the recess of a deep bay window, his mother 
stole her arm about his waist and drawing 
his head to her bosom said, “My son, you 
were right! It is your duty to strike a blow 
for the South.” 

A look of joy sparkled in the boy’s bright 
dark eyes. “Mother, darling mother, do you 
bid me go as your champion?” 

“Yes, my son, and may God in His infin- 
ite mercy guard you through the many perils 
of a soldier’s life, and when the war is over 
send you home to me in safety.” 

“God bless you, mother !” he exclaimed 
as with a grave, earnest grace he folded his 
arms about her and kissed the fair face. 
“Yes! may God bless you, mother. Doubt 
not, fear not, something whispers to me 
that I will return.” 


CHAPTER XVI 


In a beautiful drawing-room of one of the 
finest houses in New Orleans sat a pale, dark- 
eyed girl busily sewing, making a knapsack. 
Tears lingered on her fair face, her voice had 
a sad intonation as she replied to the queries 
of a lovely little girl seated on a footstool at 
her feet. 

'‘Don’t cry any more, sis Clara! Won’t 
brother Ernest come back? Or is it this 
that makes you cry?” she asked as she 
touched the black dress, for the young girl 
was in deep mourning for the loss of the 
dearest friend of her girlhood. Mrs. Hume 
had died calmly and apparently without pain 
a short time after her removal to Mr. Hart- 
ly’s house. The best of medical aid attended 
her, but could render no assistance. Mr. 
Hartly adopted Edward and Lily. 

Clara had been thinking about her 
mother. At Lily’s words she wept anew as 
she replied, “Yes, dear, I hope that brother 
Ernest will come back; and yes, I have been 
thinking of mamma.” 

“But, sister, won’t we see mamma when 
we go to Heaven?” was the earnest inquiry. 

“Yes, my darling, you do not yet realize 
your loss.” 

“Yes, sister, I feel that I will never again 


256 


Darcy Pinckney 


see dear mamma here” and the gentle eyes 
filled with tears. “I cry every night, then 
I beg God to forgive me, for Miss Nellie 
says that it is wrong to grieve when our 
Father calls for His own. So, sister, I try 
to be pleased with what He does, but oh! 
sis Clara, I do so want mamma sometimes, 
my own poor mamma,” and now sobs shook 
the childish frame. 

“Do not weep, dear little one,” said Clara, 
as she fondly kissed the pure face. 

“No, I must go, sister, and pray to my 
Father in heaven to forgive me,” and kissing 
her sister she left the room. 

A tall, manly form passed the window and 
in a second stood beside the lady. 

“I have this moment received a summons 
to meet my command at the station,” the 
young man said, “but I could not go with- 
out bidding my darling good-by. You 
must not feel badly about my going, dear 
one. In the days of chivalry every knight 
chose some fair lady for his guardian angel. 
I choose you as mine ; you must pray for 
me ; I will not feel in danger while the pray- 
ers of my angel ascend in my behalf. Give 
me this ribbon, dearest. I will always wear 
your color as your true knight,” and he de- 
tached a blue ribbon from the soft golden 
hair. “I have the lock of hair that you gave 
me, and the dear face of my lady fair shall 
always rest next to my heart. Here is a 


Darcy Pinckney 


257 


little keepsake for you, Clara. It is ugly, 
like me, yet your gentle heart will like it for 
the resemblance.” 

As he spoke he placed a small case in her 
hand and then clasping the small hand 
pressed it to his lips, saying, “I will replace 
this,” touching the handsome betrothal ring, 
“with a plain gold one when I return.” 

“It is right that you should go,” she mur- 
mured, “yet I dread your departure.” 

“Do not unman me, dear, I am trying to 
be firm.” The fresh young voice trembled 
and tears filled the fine dark eyes. “You 
must write to me often,” he continued, fold- 
ing his arms about her slight form and press- 
ing her to his bosom. “If I fall, dear, my 
last thought will be of you; if I return your 
face is the one that I wish first to see. Here 
is a ring for Lily. I must say good-by; I 
never disliked so much to say the word be- 
fore.” 

“Guy, dear, will you promise to read this 
book often for my sake?” the girl said, 
placing a beautifully bound pocket Bible in 
his hand. “Consider it my most precious 
gift.” 

He was impressed by the tender earnest- 
ness of the speaker and his reply was just as 
earnest. 

“I promise you, my dear Clara, to read 
this little book. It shall be my most valued 
17 


258 


Darcy Pinckney 


companion. For your sweet sake I will 
keep myself from the sins and follies that 
beset camp-life. Only tell me once more that 
you love me, my darling.” 

“Ah! Guy, how could I help loving you? 
I think you so good and handsome,” she 
said, blushes dyeing her pale face, “and, 
Guy, you must not forget me.” 

He kissed the sweet quivering lips. 
“Never, darling; I long for the time that will 
make you my wife.” 

Clasping her in his arms he pressed warm 
and passionate kisses on her face, then hur- 
ried away. 

Two days after Guy’s departure, Mr. 
Hardy bade adieu to his family and hastened 
with his regiment to Virginia. He had been 
appointed colonel over a Louisiana regi- 
ment and ordered to Virginia. Ernest 
would remain a week longer at home, then 
he would go there too. 

“Brother,” as a pair of soft arms were 
clasped about his neck, “of what are you 
thinking so intently?” 

“I was wondering, sweet sister, why Nina 
has never written to me; it is so long since 
I have seen her. I have often written but 
never received a line in reply. If it were not 
for this war I would be with her before many 
weeks had passed.” 

“Perhaps she has been sick, brother!” 

“No, no; her mother would have written.” 


Darcy Pinckney 


259 


The handsome, haughty face had changed 
much since we last saw it in England. Then 
it was flushed and happy with both love and 
hope; now it was wan and dejected with 
disappointment. He pushed the cup of 
steaming, fragrant coffee hastily aside as 
the mail bag was brought in. It was quickly 
opened and the contents eagerly scanned. 

“These letters are from Virginia, and are 
for you, Clara, there is father’s business 
hand; and this,” holding up a snowy envel- 
ope — “ah ! he is all right, sweet sister,” he 
said, glancing lovingly at the blushing girl. 
“Oh!” and the exclamation was a joyous 
one, “here is a package for myself, and from 
Italy. I will go to my room and open it.” 

“Drink your coffee before you go,” said 
the girl, gently detaining him. 

“I will if only to please you, dear sister.” 

An hour elapsed before he entered the 
drawing-room where Clara was seated. She 
could not bear to see the look of agony upon 
his face. Placing her hand on his arm she 
gently asked, “What troubles you? Have 
you received bad news, Ernest?” 

“Oh ! Clara, pity me, I need your pity very 
much. It is all over with me now. Nina 
has returned my letters and sent with them 
a cold note of dismissal, saying that I must 
burn her letters, and that although I am 
wealthy I am no fit mate for a future count- 
ess.” 


260 


Darcy Pinckney 


“Brother, dear, I cannot believe that Nina 
wrote that note, or returned those letters.” 

“Clara, my faith has been stronger than 
yours could have been, and yet mine is 
broken. I know no one in Italy who would 
have meddled with my affairs, besides pos- 
tal regulations there are more severe than 
they are here; yet I wish that I could think 
as you do. Henceforth my country must 
be my lady love and I long to fall in her de- 
fence.” 

“Brother,” — the tone was reproachful — 
“you should not forget that there are others 
to whom you are very dear.” 

“Forgive and bear with me, sweet sister. 
Did your letters bring you good news?” 

“Yes, our troops were victorious at Ma- 
nassas, but lost two brave officers, General 
Bee and General Bartow, and many gallant 
men. Father’s regiment acted splendidly, 
and Guy has been promoted to a captaincy.” 

“I hope that he may climb the ladder of 
fame with rapidity, my dear sister, for from 
all accounts he is a gallant soldier. I must 
now get ready, for the command to which 
I belong leaves for Virginia to-morrow.” 

“So soon? I will feel very lonely when 
you are gone.” 

“Ned will be here, and Lily will be good 
company for you,” he answered. 

“Yes, I could not do without her. And 
how long will it be till Ned will wish to join 


Darcy Pinckney 


261 


the army? Were he to wish to go I could 
not refuse him, for well I know that the 
South needs every hand that is able to help 
defend her/' 

“I would not wish to check his undaunted 
spirit, yet I would not like to leave you here 
alone with little Lily.” 

“I have a widowed friend whom I will get 
to stay with me.” 

“So that you will not be alone, sister, I 
will be satisfied. Here comes Ned now,” as 
the boy in an eager, excited manner rushed 
into the room. 

“Sister, I have news for you. Such a fine 
body of men is now passing through the 
streets. Texans, fine-looking men, and many 
of them boys. I noticed several belonging 
to one company and some of them could 
not have been more than fourteen years 
old. Some of them were delicate and tender, 
others rough and hardy. Bless the gallant 
fellows! Ernest, I had a good mind to join 
them, but I thought of your command. May 
I go with you? Please, sister Clara, let me 
go. I promise to be a good soldier, only let 
me go.” 

How could they resist the pleading voice? 
Before the sun had set he had been sworn in 
and belonged to the Crescent City Guards. 
The next morning they left for the Old Do- 
minion State. 

“It is strange, passing strange,” mur- 


262 


Darcy Pinckney 


mured the young girl, as she carefully placed 
away the package received by her brother, 
'‘that Nina could treat Ernest so cruelly, and 
he so good and noble. There must be 
treachery somewhere. Yet he thinks he has 
no enemies. Perhaps Nina has. She is so 
beautiful that many will envy her.” She 
locked her desk and turned to meet a lady 
visitor. 

“Nellie, dear, I am so glad to see you,” 
Clara said, as she affectionately kissed the 
slender, dark girl. “Give me your hat, 
gloves, and parasol, and take this nice rock- 
ing chair. I have good news for you, Nel- 
lie,” as a blush mantled her fair face. “Guy 
is well; we must thank God that where so 
many brave men fell that our dear ones were 
spared. Here is his latest letter.” 

“You can tell me the news.” 

“No, read it, dear, I have no secret from 
you.” 

She placed the letter in her friend’s hand 
and tears fell from her eyes as they lovingly 
perused the lines written by her soldier 
brother to his fair betrothed. 

They were interrupted in the midst of an 
earnest conversation by the entrance of a 
lovely child who exclaimed in an eager, ex- 
cited tone, “Oh! sister Clara, some more 
troops are marching through the streets. 
They have on gray jackets and black pants 
and caps with black bands. And only listen 


Darcy Pinckney 


263 


to the music. Is it not sweet, Miss Nellie?” 
ran on the excited child, 

“Come and kiss me, dear, and then we 
will go on the balcony ; we may have friends 
among the soldiers.” 

The little arms were wound about her 
neck, the childish face pressed against her 
own. 

“You remind me of my little sister, of 
angel Lena ; the same sweet smile and thought- 
ful brow.” 

A spasm of agony convulsed her face. 
“God spare you, little one,” she said as she 
passionately kissed the child, then clasping 
one of the small hands, passed with her to 
the balcony fronting on the street. Clara 
soon after joined them and together they 
watched the fine body of men passing by. 
Many were the bows and salutes acknowl- 
edged by the young girls, for they were 
both favorites with their brothers’ friends. 

“Ah! yonder is Louis Ashley. I thought 
he belonged to the Guards.” 

“No, he belongs to Captain Moulton’s 
company of tigers. He arrived here yester- 
day; he returned to get bedding, lint, salve, 
and other things for the hospital. He will 
call on you to-morrow, so he told me to-day.” 

“We had better go then, Nellie, and make 
up a package of linen lint, blankets, sheets, 
towels, and everything we think may be 
useful. I am so happy to send them every 
comfort that I can.” 


264 


Darcy Pinckney 


“Yes,” replied Nellie, “it is very pleasant 
to know that we can be of the slightest ser- 
vice to our heroes yonder. Indeed I love 
every southern soldier as though he were 
my brother. While they are fighting for us 
we can only work for them and offer up our 
prayers in their behalf.” And together they 
busied themselves in the work of love. 

“Are you not very lonely now that your 
father and brothers are all away?” 

“Yes, but I am expecting a friend to stay 
with me. You remember Julia Ashley?” 

“Yes, I used to admire her very much.” 

“She has promised to spend the remainder 
of the year with me. Poor Julia, hers is 
a sad story, wedded and widowed in the 
same month. She married her cousin Edgar 
Ashley, a young Virginian, and she returned 
alone from her bridal tour. She brought his 
body from Italy, and he was interred in the 
cemetery here.” 

“I am very sorry for her. Has this 
changed her much?” 

“Yes! She was a gay, wild girl; she is 
now one of the gentlest, saddest women I 
have ever seen. Her parents are abroad 
with their younger daughter.” 

“Are they expected to return soon?” 

“No, Minnie Ashley is in delicate health 
and is under the treatment of an eminent 
French physician. They will remain abroad 
until her health improves.” 


CHAPTER XVII 


Throughout the length and breadth of 
America the tocsin of war had sounded. 
Abraham Lincoln, the candidate-elect of a 
fanatical section of the country had been 
elected President. The southern people had 
yielded too long to the power of the North, 
the yoke became too heavy to be borne, the 
time had come when the shackles must be 
broken. South Carolina, already noted for 
having been the leading State in the Revolu- 
tionary war, was again first in striving to 
maintain her rights. She boldly passed the 
ordinance of secession. Captain Anderson, 
a United States officer, moved from Fort 
Moultrie to Fort Sumter, which was taken 
by the South Carolinians after a short 
struggle. Next came Alabama, then other 
States quickly followed the bright example 
and rallied around the palmetto banner. 
The Gulf States naturally leagued them- 
selves with their struggling sister States and 
became organized as a nation and baptized 
as the Southern Confederacy. The capital 
of the young nation was first located in Ala- 
bama and from there moved to Richmond, 
Virginia. 

Jefferson Davis had been chosen as the 
representative of the southern people, and 


266 


Darcy Pinckney 


Robert E. Eee as general and commander- 
in-chief of the southern forces. Troops from 
all the Southern States were hurrying to Vir- 
ginia. From Rio Grande to the Potomac, 
brave men were hastening to join the fray. 
When the news came that a decisive victory 
had been gained by the rebel troops (as they 
were termed) under General Stonewall 
Jackson, the excitement could no longer be 
checked. Without even waiting for orders, 
Texas, Louisiana and Arkansas determined 
to take a decided stand by sending help to 
their friends across the Father of Waters. 
The warm-blooded creoles left their homes 
of luxury and ease for the hardships and pri- 
vations of camp-life. Gallant men from Ar- 
kansas also bade adieu to loved ones and 
hastened to swell the ranks of General Lee. 
Three regiments from the Lone Star State 
started for the scene of action, defraying 
their own expenses. No soldiers fought bet- 
ter or won brighter names than did those 
Texans who composed the Hood brigade, or 
as it was called in compliment, the Brigade of 
the War. The first Texans who responded to 
the call to arms were the First, Fourth and 
Fifth Texas regiments of infantry. The First, 
composed of men from the northern and north- 
eastern counties, the Fourth, men from the 
middle counties, and the Fifth, of men from 
the western and southern counties of the State. 

The lull of battle did not last long. Next 


Darcy Pinckiiey 


26 ? 


the battle of Port Republic was fought, then 
Seven Pines, and then followed that bloody 
series of conflicts, Gaines’ Mill, or the 
seven days’ fight around Richmond. It was 
here that the Hood brigade wrote up its 
name in blood on the annals of history, here 
that it lost many brave men and fine officers, 
here that the whole-souled Virginian, Brad- 
fute Warwick, lieutenant colonel of the 
Fourth Texas regiment, fell while cheering on 
his men, and under the shade of a palmetto 
banner which he had grasped from the 
bearer as the latter fell mortally wounded. 
No more gallant soldier than Colonel War- 
wick fell amid the storm of shot and shell on 
that sad day. 

It was a splendid picture, a study for an 
artist, a scene for a painter. The long glit- 
tering lines of blue, surmounted by glisten- 
ing steel, their banners waving gaily, their 
martial music ringing out sweetly on the 
morning air. Against those blue-coated 
men marched the men in gray, their battle- 
flag, the bloodstained banner of so many 
engagements, the red cross flag floating as 
proudly, their tramp as steady, their bearing 
as erect as those of the foemen who had 
dared pollute southern soil. The battle be- 
gins, now comes the tearing of bombs, regi- 
ments fall, yet there is no disorder; others 
close up and fill their places as they continue 
to march amid the whiz of Minies, the sing- 


2C8 


Darcy Pinckney 


ing of bullets, the crashing of bombs, and 
tearing chain-shot. Onwards thousands of 
bold men marched to death or victory. The 
battle raged fiercely and steadily. Fresh 
troops were needed; for many weary mo- 
ments reinforcements had been expected 
but none had come. Now every smoke- 
blackened face grows bright, for yonder, 
down the valley, is heard the roar of mus- 
ketry. A wild shout, '‘Jackson is coming! 
Stonewall is here !” arose as the dusty vet- 
erans rushed into the fight. 

Richmond was saved but at an awful cost. 
Men in coats of blue and men in coats of 
gray lay strewn in every direction. Flags 
trailed in the dust. Canteens, knapsacks, 
haversacks, and all the paraphernalia of war 
were scattered over the bloodstained 
ground. There lay many of the red-breeched 
Zouaves who had fought against the Tex- 
ans. Again floated the red cross in victory. 
McClellan had been stopped in his “on to 
Richmond’' march and the young Napoleon 
was forced to retreat. Our loss in both of- 
ficers and men was great. Many acts of gal- 
lantry were performed on the battlefield. 
Troops from every State acted with unsur- 
passed courage. Under a palmetto banner 
fell seven of South Carolina’s sons, brave 
Charleston boys. My eyes grow dim and fill 
with tears as I think of one who fell under 
the sacred folds of that banner, who gave 


Darcy Pinckney 


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his bright young life for a country he died 
in vain to save. Seeing the flag waver, this 
young hero sprang forward, exclaiming to a 
comrade, “Here is a place for us!” As he 
grasped the flagstaff a bullet pierced his 
right temple and he fell, his forehead mar- 
red, his hair stained with blood. Gallant 
young Alfred Pinckney ! Death indeed loves 
a shining mark. He was so young to die. 
God bless you, Allie! May you rest peace- 
fully there in Magnolia Cemetery until you 
are summoned to meet the God who so early 
called you from earth. May He in His 
mercy also bless those whom you loved and 
who so fondly loved you. 

Other brave souls were called home. Col. 
Marshall, Col. Warwick, Capt. Hutcheson, 
and Lieut. Lewis Butts, all officers of the 
Fourth Texas. Captain Hutcheson was a 
perfect Chesterfield in courtesy, a lion in 
bravery. He was courteous to his soldiers 
even on the battlefield; his orders were al- 
ways given in a quick, firm, polite tone. 
“Charge them, gentlemen, charge them I 
aim at their waist bands.” The men of 
Company G did not know how they loved 
until they had lost him. Lieut. Butts fell 
as he sprang on a Yankee battery, his cap in 
one hand, his sword in the other, cheering 
on his men. A gallant, handsome youth, he 
found a long, last home on the soil for which 
he fought. Virginia gave graves to many 


270 


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Texans during that dread battle, for the 
series was but one long, bloody fight. 

On the sixth day Col. Hartly fell severely 
wounded and was sent to the hospital at 
Richmond, the ‘‘St. Francis De Sales,” an 
establishment controlled by the Sisters of 
Mercy. The hospital was divided into wards, 
each ward containing a narrow cot spread 
with spotless linen. On each cot lay a sick 
or wounded soldier. Yonder lay dying a 
tall, gray-haired man. He had been a pri- 
vate in the Eighteenth Georgia, and had 
fallen, his left arm torn away by a fragment 
of bombshell, on the third day’s fight. Only 
a few steps from the veteran lay a boy of 
sixteen, a fair-haired child, his left arm al- 
most torn away. As a surgeon cut the rag- 
ged flesh from his shoulder a groan escaped 
from the youthful sufferer’s lips. 

“Oh ! Harry, my son, if I could only bear 
the pain for you,” said the gray-haired man 
in a hoarse voice. 

“Don’t fret, father, dear, are you in much 
pain ?” 

“No, child, I will be past all pain soon.” 

With a cry of anguish, both mental and 
bodily, the boy sprang from his couch before 
the gentle Sister Bertha could interfere, and, 
his shattered shoulder dripping blood, stag- 
gered across the room and knelt beside the 
old soldier. 

“Oh! father, father, do not leave me! 


Darcy Pinckney 


271 


How can I go home alone to mother and 
little sister? Don’t go away, father.” 

“Harry, boy, don’t unman me. I know 
that your mother’s eyes will grow dim 
watching for me. Cut a lock of my hair; my 
picture is in my pocket for her; and when 
you go home kiss both mother and baby 
Bessie for me. Is Ned safe?” 

“Yes, father, as I was brought from the 
field I saw my gallant brother rush into the 
fight at the head of his brigade,” and the 
boy’s blue eyes flashed. “Oh! how I long 
to go into the fight again.” Then remem- 
bering his wounded arm he burst into tears. 

“Be a man, my son, and when able to 
travel go to our dear country home and tell 
them how I died. Take care of mother and 
Bessie, my son.” Then to the doctor, “Can 
you keep life in me until night?” as an eager 
look crossed the thin face. 

“Yes, but you must be very quiet.” 

Sliding a small bed nearer to the sick man, 
he said kindly to the boy, “My little hero, 
you can rest here and watch your father,” 
and stooping, he whispered, “Don’t let him 
talk too much.” 

Stepping aside the doctor said to the 
sweet-voiced sister. “You must watch them 
both closely. Sister Bertha. The boy is very 
weak, he may recover; but for the elder man 
there is no hope. He may wish to send a 
letter. You understand?” 


272 


Darcy Pinckney 


“Yes, I will do all I can for both. How 
are your other patients?” 

“They are convalescing, I think. I am 
needed yonder,” and bowing, he walked 
away. 

Going to the couch the sister gently said, 
as she smoothed the hair from the man’s 
heated forehead, “Does your head pain you 
as badly now?” 

“Yes, sister, my brain feels as though it 
were on fire.” 

“I will prepare something cooling,” and 
she soon placed a bandage containing ice on 
his head. 

“Here is some broth. I made it. Won’t 
you try a little?” and she fed the wounded 
man. “Now a cool drink and then you must 
rest.” After arranging his pillow she said, 
“There, now you can take a nap.” 

Seating herself beside the boy she passed 
her soft hand tenderly across his brow. 

“Harry, dear, try not to grieve, it will only 
make him feel worse. You are a brave little 
soldier. Oh! our cause must prosper when 
even children go, forth to defend it. Here, 
dear, is the iced lemonade which you wished, 
and a nice slice of cake. Let me hold the 
goblet to your lips. You must try to be 
quiet,” stooping, she whispered, “for your 
father’s sake.” 

The scene changes. It is night, all is 
hushed and still except for an occasional low 


Darcy Pinckney 


273 


moan or whispered word. The occupants 
of the numerous wards felt that death would 
soon be their visitor, that one of their num- 
ber was even then gazing with wistful eyes 
toward the entrance of the heavenly city, 
was even then preparing to meet the Saviour 
whom he loved. It was a solemn scene. 
The soft mellow rays of the lamp filled the 
room with a subdued luster, and shone on 
the pallid face of the dying man. On a small 
table near lay a letter sealed and directed. 
On the table were also a pitcher of ice water, 
an urn of tea, and several bottles of medi- 
cine, a decanter and wine glass. On a couch 
near the old man half reclined the figure of 
the wounded boy, his face almost as ghastly 
as that of his father. 

Beside the beds, near the head of the dy- 
ing soldier, knelt a dark robed figure, who 
in a low sweet voice offered up a prayer for 
the hero who was now fighting his last fight. 

‘‘Sister, please sing for me ‘/ would not live 
alway' ” 

The song was not half finished when a tall, 
martial figure, plumed hat in hand, entered 
and stood beside her. 

“Thanks, Sister Bertha, I almost felt at 
home again.” 

“Father!” and the tall form stooped until 
his raven hair caressed the pale face. “How 
are you, father dear?” 

i8 


274 


Darcy Pinckney 


“Ned, my son, I am almost gone. Tell 
me, how went the day?” 

“To-night our troops sleep upon the field; 
but many brave men fell.” 

“For the first may God be praised; for 
the latter may He in His mercy rest their 
souls in peace.” 

“Amen,” responded the sweet-voiced sis- 
ter. 

“Amen,” said the dark-haired man. 

“Amen,” spoke the wounded boy earn- 
estly. 

“I did not know until an hour ago, father, 
that you had been stricken.” 

“You could not have left your post, my 
son. Send Harry home; take care of them 
for me. Sister Bertha, your kindness will be 
rewarded. Harry, boy, my eyes are failing, 
give me your hand. Good-by, Ned.” 

Turning to the Sister of Mercy he mur- 
mured, “Do not forget your promise, the 
Episcopal service — Oh! Mary dear — ” 

His head drooped forward, the weary eyes 
closed, the angel of death had come. The 
gray-haired soldier, far away from his home, 
would never see his Mary, who so patiently 
awaited his coming, or the little Bessie who 
had ever been so fond of papa. He had an- 
swered the summons sent by his maker, and 
the soldier of the Potomac was off duty for- 
ever. 

The dark-haired warrior knelt beside the 


Darcy Pinckney 


275 


lovely woman, the pale-faced boy with his 
blood-bandaged shoulder kneeling opposite, 
and with sad, earnest voices they prayed for 
the departed soul. Then standing up the 
young girl read in a clear, sweet voice the 
Episcopal burial service for the dead, merely 
saying to the brothers, “I promised him 
this.” 

A courier came and handed the officer a 
note. After reading it hastily he turned to 
the lady, and grasping her hand, said earn- 
estly, ''God bless you, sister, I leave Harry in 
your care.” 

Stooping, he kissed the pale, still face and 
said, "Father, farewell.” Then clasping the 
boy’s hand, he tenderly smoothed the silken 
hair from the blue-veined, girlish brow, and 
kissed away the tears from the delicate face. 

"Don’t cry any more, Harry,” he contin- 
ued, "try to bear up; think about the dear 
ones at home; I will see you again soon.” 
Then addressing the young girl he said, 
"You, sweet sister, will be a friend to him, 
you will take care of him for me.” 

"I will,” she replied, "and may God tem- 
per this sorrow to you both.” 

Only a few yards away lay a dark-eyed 
boy of about fifteen summers. Groan after 
groan seemed wrenched, as though in mor- 
tal agony, from his lips, while the youthful 
form shook with pain. 


276 


Darcy Pinckney 


'‘Bear up a little longer, Willie, dear, a 
surgeon will soon be here.” 

“Oh! sister, dear Sister Bertha, I am in 
such terrible pain, please press your cool, 
soft hand to my brow. Oh ! if this mangled 
limb were only off — they cannot save it! And 
I, oh sister, am the sole support of a wid- 
owed mother. Father fell at Manassas and 
Godfrey in Tennessee. 

An opiate was administered; and gently, 
tenderly as a woman, the skilful, kind- 
hearted surgeon proceeded to amputate the 
shattered leg, which left the poor child 
maimed for life. The awakening hour was a 
terrible one. “I can never go into battle 
again — never, never ! I am only a useless crip- 
ple!” and covering his swarthy face with his 
hands he sobbed aloud. 

“Do not cry, Willie, strive to be calm. 
You have been a good soldier, and have suf- 
fered for your country’s sake. Do not con- 
sider yourself useless because you have won 
a badge of honor. Oh! during that awful 
time so many, both friends and foes were 
slain. Thank God, my child, that you have 
been spared to your mother’s love. See yon- 
der poor boy; he, too, is maimed and will be 
a cripple for life. His arm, the left one, was 
taken off this morning. His father is only 
a few paces from him and is dead. Poor lit- 
tle boy, he, too, has a mother, also a baby 
sister to support, and yet he tries so hard to 


Darcy Pinckney 


277 


be calm and patient. You, too, must be calm 
if only for your mother’s sake. So don’t 
worry about what is unavoidable. I will pet 
and take care of you, and to-morrow you 
shall tell me about your home. You are in 
my ward, and must call me Sister Bertha.” 

‘‘You are very kind. I will do all that you 
wish. Sister Bertha. I am sorry for that other 
boy.” 

The black eyes closed drowsily, the well- 
shaped head fell listlessly to one side, and 
his deep breathing told that under the effect 
of the powerful opiate the boy again slept. 
His jetty curls formed a pretty contrast with 
the snowy casing of the pillow. The clear, 
dark complexion betokened creole blood. His 
home was among the orange groves of Louis- 
iana. 

“Poor little fellow,” Sister Bertha said, 
and bending over him she kissed the smooth, 
dark brow. After spreading a lawn hand- 
kerchief over his face she moved on to an- 
other bedside. 

It was in ward No. 6 that a hoarse voice 
was heard, first in tones of entreaty, then in 
a voice of command, saying, “I will tell no 
one but Sister Bertha. She has been my 
nurse, and I know will not refuse a dying 
man’s request.” 

“You must not get so excited,” said the 
sister, “I will do all for you that I can,” and 


278 


Darcy Pinckney 


she wiped the moisture from the rugged 
brow. 

“I will only tell Dr. Winter and you, Sister 
Bertha. Don’t think too hardly of my poor 
girl yonder. She was nurse in a rich gentle- 
man’s family. I was working and struggling 
to get a sum of money in order that I could 
offer her a comfortable home. A great 
temptation came in her way and she could 
not resist it. Ah! lady, judge her not too 
harshly. I could not censure her, for it was 
for me that she sinned. And this has caused 
her suffering. Oh! I pray that God will 
pity and forgive her.” 

Then in a low tone he told them the secret 
that had caused his wife so much sorrow, 
adding, ‘Tn my coat pocket you will find a 
letter and package. Sister Bertha. Please 
send them as they are addressed. There is 
also a letter to my wife to which you will add 
a postcript, telling her that the promise has 
been fulfilled. And tell her, please,” and 
here his voice grew very tender and his dark 
eyes filled with tears, “tell her that my 
thoughts were with her to the last. I will 
never see her dear face again.” The strong 
voice quivered and the tears flowed down his 
bearded face. “Lady, I do not fear to die; 
I can go in peace. Something whispers that 
my wishes will not be disregarded. Ah! 
everything seems dim, there is a mist before 
my eyes. Kind sister, gentle nurse, this 


Darcy Pinckney 


279 


must be death. God bless you, and may He 
take care of my poor wife and forgive her 

Muttering a few incoherent words his 
spirit passed and stood face to face with his 
Maker. 

The battle, as long as it lasted, had raged 
fiercely. The grim dogs of war had howled 
with unabated fury, and the veterans of Lee 
had checked and routed the splendid army of 
the North. As the young officer had said, 
the rebel soldiers slept upon the battlefield, 
the red cross flag flaunted its glorious folds, 
like a faithful sentinel, in front of the de- 
voted city. Dead and wounded of both ar- 
mies were strewn thick over the field. There 
lay a torn and bloodstained banner, the stars 
and stripes, its folds telling a sad though 
silent story of the gallantry of its defender, 
whose lifeblood had colored, perhaps, the 
flag to which he was devoted. Ah! yes, for 
there lay a fair-faced, blue-eyed Yankee boy, 
the blood oozing from his bosom, one thin, 
delicate hand grasping the battered staff. 
A few paces farther on waves the stars and 
bars. Why do its folds wave so near the 
earth? Ah, the broken staff had fallen and 
lodged in a crevice, the folds floating mourn- 
fully over a gray-clad hero. He wears the 
badge of a New Orleans regiment, yet his 
dark, olive face bespeaks a warmer clime. 
He must have fought desperately, for three 
dead soldiers, dressed in blue, lying near, 


280 


Darcy Pinckney 


each with a sword-thrust through the body, 
tell that it was a desperate struggle. The 
gray jacket was stained with gore. The 
right hand, slender and beautiful as a girl’s, 
grasped a sword of true Damascus steel. In 
his left hand was firmly held a piece of the 
shattered flagstaff. The youthful face looked 
beautiful even in death, so perfect in its re- 
pose, so calm and still, the folds of the flag 
floating as though in very sadness over his 
head. Near by lay the body of a brilliant 
staff officer. The surgeon who sent the col- 
otnel’s body from the field deemed it not 
amiss to send also the bodies of the two 
young standard bearers — the Yankee boy 
and the rebel boy. In life they were divided, 
in death united. Together they lay in state 
for several hours in the Episcopal church in 
Richmond. 

It was three o’clock in the afternoon. 
First officers filed into the church, then came 
private soldiers and citizens, and lastly fol- 
lowed a dark-robed train of women, the Sis- 
ters of Mercy, the gentle nurses of the Hotel 
De Sales. Several of the soldiers under their 
care had died and they had come to pay the 
last sad tribute of respect to the gallant dead. 
They had reached the center of the broad 
aisle, when, with a wild shriek, one of the 
ladies sprang forward and passionately 
kissed the lips of the Confederate ensign. 
The kindhearted surgeon came forward and 


Darcy Pinckney 


281 


led her away, she murmuring in a broken 
voice, “My boy, my poor, poor boy!’’ 

The sister known as Bertha gazed for a 
moment in silence at the pale, handsome boy 
face, then, stooping, pressed her lips to those 
others so beautiful even in death. 

“Sister, your friend has fainted!” said a 
tall, handsome man in the uniform of a brig- 
adier-general, who stood beside her. She 
looked up at him with a gaze so full of woe 
that he could only draw one slender hand 
through his arm and lead her away. 

“Your sorrow is deep, lady. Please ac- 
cept my sympathy.” 

“Thanks, General Pinckney, I have just left 
the corpse of an only brother; that lady is 
my mother, a widow, and he her son.” 

Her voice was so calm that the young offi- 
cer was startled, and but for the look in the 
large, dark eyes, he would have thought her 
devoid of tender feeling. 

On their return the burial service was read 
by the aged minister. The scene was a very 
solemn one, the pale, fixed faces of the dead, 
the sad faces of the soldiers, the awe-stricken 
looks of the citizens, the black-robed train 
of women, two of whom bent lovingly and 
sadly for a moment over the face of the dead 
boy. Each pressed a last, fond kiss upon the 
cold lips, and then the coffin lid was fastened 
down forever. 

The aged minister had announced as his 


282 


Darcy Pinckney 


text the tenth verse of the forty-ninth chap- 
ter of Isaiah, '"‘They shall not hunger nor 
thirst; neither shall the heat nor sun smite 
them ; for He that hath mercy on them shall 
'lead them, even by the springs of water shall 
He guide them/’ 

The sermon was beautiful; then he of- 
fered a prayer for those who mourned, for 
those who would watch for the ones who 
came not, who would never come. Then in 
a winning voice he told how the youthful 
hero, he who had so lately fought under the 
red cross, now indeed a soldier of the cross, 
had come from a foreign land, had left title, 
home, wealth, all to cast his fortunes with 
the South. His mother and sister had met 
him; this was the meeting. Then he spoke 
of his gallantry in defending with his life the 
flag of his choice. Then he gracefully 
brought the mournful scene to a close. 

The next day a note from Sister Bertha 
brought Doctor Winter to her side. Her 
mother was feeble and needed quiet and her 
care. She had rented a small house and 
would go there and take the two wounded 
boys, if he did not object. 

“No, my dear. I am sorry to lose you, for 
you are the best and gentlest of my nurses. 
Your place will not soon be filled. The boys 
will be glad to go. Poor fellows, they need 
a change.” 

The change proved beneficial to all. The 


Darcy Pinckney 


283 


widow became less sad, Harry’s spirits grew 
gay and cheerful, and Will became less grave 
and moody. 

It is the third week after their removal 
that we peep into the tiny sitting-room. The 
mother slept on a lounge. Near the open 
window the daughter sat busy at a sewing 
machine. Jackets and pants of gray cloth, 
and a large pile of neatly finished caps, after 
the zouave order, were on a work table close 
by, showing that in leisure moments the ta- 
per fingers had not been idle. 

Harry came in and seated himself near her. 
‘^Are you not tired. Sister Bertha?” for both 
boys still clung to the endearing term. 

“No, dear, I am never tired of doing all 
that I can for our brave soldiers. You will 
leave for home soon. What will you do 
when you get there?” 

“I do not know. I will try to support 
mamma and Bessie until brother Ned comes 
home.” 

“Suppose that I were your fairy god- 
mother and could grant you a wish, for what 
would you ask?” 

“Oh ! Sister Bertha,” and the eager tones 
made her smile, “I would ask for an educa- 
tion, then for a position as a clerk or that of 
bookkeeper for some mercantile house, so 
that I could give mother and Bessie all they 
would want. I’d send Bessie to school, and 
if she lives to grow up and be married, I’d 


284 


Darcy Pinckney 


like to give her a handsome dowry; and I 
would take care of mother always.” 

A smile of womanly sympathy^ flitted over 
Bertha’s sweet, grave face. 

“You have a generous heart, dear, and a 
warm one. Your unselfishness speaks well 
for you. Some kind fairy may befriend you 
more than you think. That’s right, always 
think of mother and Bessie first. Pray to 
God, He will not desert you. I will read you 
a homily, though your brother told me yes- 
terday that he had already made arrange- 
ments for you to go through college, and 
that he would take care that the dear ones 
were provided for. So, dear, you see that a 
part of your wish has been granted. Your 
kind brother, though, has been the good 
fairy. I, too, will assist you. You are anx- 
ious to finish Ges Miserables ; there is the 
last volume. You should devote more time, 
dear, when you reach home, to history, both 
modern and ancient. It will help you much 
more than novel reading.” 

“This shall be my last novel unless you 
write and tell me of some nice one.” 

“Thanks, dear little friend. Light litera- 
ture is not injurious in its place, yet I will 
hold you to your promise.” 

An hour later Will came in. He was paler 
and more slender, yet had a manlier look 
than the blue-eyed boy. Standing cap in 
hand leaning against the wall, he made a fine 


Darcy Pinckney 


285 


picture. Just now the slender, dark face 
wore a sad, troubled look, the large, dark 
eyes were misty with unshed tears. 

^‘You are always busy. Do you never feel 
weary, Sister Bertha?” 

‘'No, Willie, I am not tired.” Then notic- 
ing his sad, dejected look, she said, “Sit down 
and tell me what troubles you. Are you in 
pain? Or is there bad news from home?” 
she asked, as she placed her hand on his coat 
sleeve. There was something inexpressibly 
sad and touching in seeing this boy, so young 
and delicate, supported by crutches. She felt 
sorry for Harry, who wore an empty jacket 
sleeve as a badge of honor, but a mingling of 
pity and sorrow filled her heart for Willie 
Graham. 

“Oh! Sister Bertha, I’ve heard the sad- 
dest news. Read this. It will tell you all,” 
and he handed her a daintily written, tear- 
stained letter. 

Tears filled the girl’s dark eyes. “It is 
very sad, dear. I who have so lately lost a 
brother, can sympathize with you. Yes, it is 
very sad. How the poor, fond mother’s 
heart must have ached as her hand wrote 
the lines so full of woe.” 

Bertha read the letter aloud. 

“Willie, darling, you already know . that 
your dear father fills a soldier’s grave at 
Manassas ; your eldest brother, my first 
born, fell in Tennessee ; my blue-eyed Bertie 


286 


Darcy Pinckney 


died in prison at Fort Delaware, and Allie 
came home wounded to die. A week ago to- 
night he told me that he felt so weary, he 
wished to rest. I drew his dear head to my 
bosom, his brown eyes closed gently ; I 
pressed my lips to his own; I felt that I was 
bereaved a fourth time. ‘The silver cord 
was loosened, the golden bowl was broken,’ 
he had gone to rest, for the spark of life had 
fled. In one brief moment the glad voung life 
passed away forever, my precious, gallant 
boy was dead. I cannot telL you of my sor- 
row, Willie, child. My heart will yearn for 
those household idols. I feel that it is 
wrong; God knows what is right and He 
doeth all things for the best. Yet my heart 
will ache as I wish they could have been 
spared to me. Then on my knees do I thank 
Him for His loving kindness in sending Allie 
home to me. I pray to Him in His mercy 
to spare you to me, my youngest one, the 
only one left to me of my four brave, manly 
boys.” 

Sobs choked the sweet voice, she placed 
her arm. about his neck, kissed his brow, and 
said, “Do not give way to grief, dear brother. 
It is a sad, sad story. Your poor mother’s 
heart must be well-nigh broken. Try to 
check your sorrow, think how much greater 
hers must be. Yet zvhat sweet Christianity, 
patience and humility she shows. She does 
not forget to thank God for the dear one He 


Darcy Pinckney 


287 


sent home to die. She remembers to thank 
Him for the idol left to her love while her 
heart is wrung with agony.” 

“Yes, it was breaking when Godfrey, my 
splendid, daring brother, died,” said the boy. 
“I will devote my life to comforting my dar- 
ling, gentle mother.” 

“Tell me something of your plans. You 
are a fair scholar for a boy of your age, but 
you will need more schooling yet.” 

“Yes, sister, I will apply myself closely to 
my books. Would you give me a list of the 
books that I had better study? I must 
choose a commercial life. Ambition would 
have pointed higher, but mother’s comfort 
must now be my first thought.” 

“You are right there, Willie, yet it is so 
hard to give up long-cherished hopes. Would 
you like to study law?” 

“Yes, sister,” Willie replied, his black eyes 
flashing. “I had read both Coke and Black- 
stone before I left home, yet I am too poor 
to devote much time to study.” 

- “Close application and hard study must be 
your motto. Never mind the time, it would 
not be wasted ; not a second spent thus would 
be thrown away. Each moment, at some fu- 
ture day, would be of double value to you. 
I think I can help you if you will let me.” 

“Lady, I would be only too grateful.” 

“I know a gentleman, a lawyer, who lives 
in your native State. He wants a student, a 


288 


Darcy Pinckney 


nice, bright lad. Your home is near the 
Crescent City, where he resides, so you could 
be with your mother at night, and in the day 
time study at his office. I will advance you 
some money. There, don’t get rosy, I won’t 
give it to you. Accept it as a loan, which, 
when you become a noted lawyer, you can 
repay with interest by giving it to some good 
boy who has a mother to support. I will feel 
as though I, too, were giving to the Lord, 
even though it be like the widow’s mite, 
which it is not, for I have money to spare and 
it is lying idle. And, dear, I have always felt 
that it is more blessed to give than to re- 
ceive.” Then in a gentle voice, she added, 
“Yonder is my desk, dear. Harry has just 
finished a letter to his mother. Write to 
yours, try to comfort her ; take a manly tone ; 
you must cease to be petted now, and must 
cherish her. Tell her about your plans. I will 
write to the lawyer of whom I spoke. His 
name is Mr. Walsingham.” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


Months rolled by. Battle followed battle. 
The huge machinery of war steadily ad- 
vanced, guided by the firm hand of Gen. R. E. 
Lee. The Yankees had been badly repulsed 
in their on to Richmond campaign. Their 
boastful assertions that Davis and Co. would 
soon swing from the battlements of their 
capitol, and that the ragamuffins would fly 
like chaff before the whirlwind at their ap- 
proach, had not been verified, for Davis, our 
beloved President, was still the first man in 
the young nation, and was idolized by the 
whole southern people. His ^‘Co.’’ retained 
their places in his Cabinet and the ragamuf- 
fins had been victorious on more than one 
hard-fought field, and had taught the north- 
ern soldiers that even ‘Tagamuffins’’ were to 
be respected. 

Then came the terrible day at the Wilder- 
ness. Oh! it was a time of horror. There 
again the blue met the gray. Two hundred 
thousand bayonets gleamed. Two hundred 
thousand men stood with fierce, set faces, 
eagerly waiting for the coming storm. It 
was a sight both beautiful and terrible, to 
see those long glittering lines marching 
steadily against each other. The rattling of 

... 


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Darcy Pinckney 


musketry, the roar of cannon, the bursting of 
bombs, the whistle of the Minie, and the 
whiz of the smaller balls, mixed with the 
short, stern commands of the leaders; the 
fierce shouts of both Yankee and rebel, as 
some vantage ground was gained or lost on 
either side ; the shrieks of the dying, the 
quick neigh and heavy trampling of horses, 
the roll of the artillery, all told of the horrors 
of war. Yet it was but the beginning of the 
battle, the dread carnival of blood had only 
begun. It was a splendid yet terrific sight, to 
see the blue-clad, well-drilled men of the 
northern army, with a calm assurance, mov- 
ing to the fight, their martial music ringing 
sweetly on the morning air, their bayonets 
glistening brightly, the star spangled banner 
and hosts of regimental flags floating gaily 
on the breeze. On came that blue line 
against our army of gray-clad veterans. It 
was a glorious sight to see those men in 
gray, the flower of the South, marching amid 
death to meet the foe. 

It was here that General Lee missed his 
great soldier most, for Jackson, the stone 
wall of the southern army, had crossed the 
valley, passed through the dark waters, and 
was with his God. Longstreet saw the grief 
felt by his loved chieftain over the loss of his 
trusty lieutenant, and nobly strove to fill his 
place. Well did he perform the self-imposed 
task. With pride did General Lee watch his 


Darcy Pinckney 


291 


war horse, Longstreet, the comrade in arms 
of Jackson, Ewell, Hood, Stuart, Ashby, and 
the Hills, all gallant men, all skilful officers, 
each and every one worthy the entire love of 
a nation. It was here that the “war horse” 
fell, shot in mistake by his own men. Ah! 
did not these unhappy mistakes occur rather 
too often during the late war? Was it fated 
thus? Who shall solve the problem? 

The Texas Brigade had been held as a re- 
serve until now. An arduous task was to be 
performed, a difficult position had to be 
stormed and carried. Other troops had 
failed, not from want of bravery, for the 
bravest gentlemen of the South were there. 
They lacked the dash of the Texas soldiers, 
who, under Hood’s command, were ever 
ready to rush into the jaws of death. The 
ragged line of gray-clad men marched out, 
and with rapidity and ease fell into line of 
battle. Once again was heard the wild 
Texas yell of those fierce troops which so 
often had caused many a heart to beat more 
quickly beneath its jacket of blue, for this 
wild slogan had been heard on nearly every 
battlefield in Virginia. In a moment the 
cheering was hushed, only murmurs or whis- 
pered comments rang along the line. A deep 
silence prevailed as every eye watched the 
great chieftain as he rode along the line and 
paused in front of the Texans. 

An aid led the General’s horse to the 


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rear. The old man’s eyes glistened with 
tears as he remarked, ‘‘Those brave men will 
take the position, but many will never re- 
turn.” 

Alas ! his words were verified. The point 
was gallantly charged and taken by storm. 
No more gallant deed was performed during 
the four years of the war. Many brave souls 
went home to God that day. 

The hospitals were crowded; more than 
the usual number had been sent to the St. 
Frances De Sales. Doctor Winter, with kind 
face and genial smile, is still there as head 
physician. We find him in converse with a 
lady. 

“I think you followed the best course; your 
mother is not fit for such scenes as these, yet 
I am glad to get you back.” 

“I hope that there will not be much work 
to be done.” 

“I fear there will. This morning’s papers 
and private dispatches all announce a hard- 
fought battle. The rebels hold the ground. 
There are several distinguished officers to 
be sent here. An army surgeon comes with 
them.” 

The girl shuddered. When would the 
dread carnival of death be over? 

An hour later the rumbling of ambulances 
was heard along the street, and wounded 
men were gently lifted out and brought into 
the well-ventilated rooms. 


Darcy Pinckney 


293 


“Sister Bertha!” 

The next moment she stood there and 
helped to bandage the bloody shoulder. The 
left arm had been shot away. 

“What a pity,” said the doctor, “for he is a 
splendid-looking man — a cavalry officer. Col- 
onel Hartly of the Rifles!” 

It needed not the name, for was not the 
dear face imprinted on the tablets of her 
memory? 

Gently, tenderly, she bathed the blood- 
stained brow, and lovingly smoothed away 
the raven hair. Yet on awakening he saw 
only a dark-robed woman busy mixing 
opiates, while by her side stood a tall soldier 
in the uniform of a brigadier-general. The 
handsome face seemed familiar, yet he could 
not locate it. And who was his gentle nurse? 
He could think no more, his brain reeled, the 
opiate was doing its work. Often when he 
awoke he felt that a woman’s breath had 
swept his face, and that a soft hand had 
touched his brow, yet the low-voiced, gentle 
nurse was always busy preparing lint, cutting 
bandages, or mixing medicine. Once he 
caught the gaze of a pair of soul-lit eyes 
fixed on his face. He strove to think but 
again his brain reeled and once more he 
slept. 

“You think that Colonel Hartly is beyond 
all danger and does not need my immediate 
care?” she asked. 


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''Yes, Sister Bertha, he will be able to go 
home in a few days. You look weary and I 
will try to spare you for a while. 

"Thanks, Doctor ! I feel that I need some 
relaxation.” 

"My dear young lady, if I can be of any 
service to your mother or yourself you must 
not hesitate to call upon me.” 

"Indeed, Doctor Winter, I know of no one 
from whom I would more quickly ask a favor 
than yourself. I am going to ask one now. 
Please do not answer any questions asked 
concerning either myself or my place of resi- 
dence.” 

"I certainly will not if such is your wish,” 
he replied. 

Good-bys were said, and with an earnest, 
lingering glance at the wounded officer, the 
Sister of Mercy left the hospital and wended 
her way to her cottage home. 


CHAPTER XIX 


Step by step our gallant men fell back. 
Disaster followed quickly upon disaster. 
The flower of the South had perished on the 
battlefield and in northern prisons. Against 
our brave veterans had been hurled masses 
of men in blue, the scum and cut-throats of 
the Northern States. Foreigners were im- 
ported to feast on blood, and, shame to say, 
they fought more like demons than like men. 
Think of the sentinels left by Sherman’s men 
after his dreadful raid through Georgia and 
Carolina. Ah ! Sherman’s is a hideous 
record. Southern homes were burned, fami- 
lies turned adrift to beg or starve, property 
stolen and sent North, and innocent people 
murdered or imprisoned. And this in a civ- 
ilized country and by a civilized people! 

The southern soldiers fought like men. 
General Lee did not believe in retaliation. 
He was the idol of the soldiery, who fought 
entirely to suit him, and followed his code of 
honor, which was perfect in every respect, 
for was he not the most accomplished gen- 
tleman in America? The South was finally 
compelled to yield to the superior strength 
of the North. 

The bloody carnival is over, the shifting 
scene has rapidly drawn to its close, the 


296 


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drama will soon be finished and the curtain 
fall to rise no more. Lee had done all that 
mortal man could do. His men had proved 
themselves heroes as gallant as those of 
Thermopylae, as undaunted and devoted as 
the Old Guard of Napoleon. Yet all to no 
purpose. They were compelled to surrender, 
for Grant had starved them into submission. 
The brave troops were famished and in rags, 
yet were willing to fight on, to die defending 
their colors. On the 9th of April, long to be 
remembered as a day of gloom for the Con- 
federacy, the soldiers were busy preparing 
for battle. Although weak and worn, they 
were jesting about outwitting Ulysses. 
Every face wore a joyous look, the look of 
gladness seen perhaps once in a lifetime, on 
the faces of veteran soldiers, eager for the 
fray, panting to close in a last, mortal grip 
with the foemen who so long had desecrated 
the soil of the South with their polluted 
tread. All was expectation. 

A courier came dashing along the line. 
He muttered something in an undertone to 
an officer. The word was caught by a pri- 
vate, and soon the news flashed along the 
line — “General Lee has surrendered.'’ The 
men spoke in fierce whispers to each other. 
They could not believe it. They doubted, 
although a pang of despair tugged at each 
man's heartstrings. 

A colonel galloped along and confirmed 


Darcy Pinckney 


297 


the sad news. When the old General, the 
gallant cavalier, with a sad face, came, borne 
by his gray war horse “Traveler,” the men 
could restrain their emotion no longer. 
They crowded around him with tottering 
steps, their faces pale and stern, their eyes 
furious, and their lips quivering. Dumb de- 
spair and fierce agony struggled for the mas- 
tery in every face. Sobs shook many a noble 
breast. Voices, husky with emotion, pled 
for “one more chance.” The agony of those 
stern men who for so long had fought and 
bled for their cause, was a tragic spectacle. 
Their grief was held in check when they no- 
ticed the sadness stamped on the face of 
their idolized leader. Every eye grew moist. 
Those stern men sorrowed more for him 
than for themselves. More than one voice 
called out, “We are willing to abide by your 
decision. General.” 

“I have done what I thought was best for 
you,” he said. “My heart is too full to speak, 
but I wish you all health and happiness.” 

On the 9th of April, 1865, the formal sur- 
render of the army was made. General 
Grant acted well that day. He refused to 
accept Lee’s sword. 

“Keep it. General ; you are most worthy to 
wear it.” • 

Those who had for four years fought with 
each other now buried the hatchet and 
smoked the pipe of peace ; the ragged troops 


298 


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of the vanquished South and the well- 
dressed men of the victorious North, now 
clasped hands in friendship. 

Four years had passed, four long, weary 
years of war, anarchy and bloodshed. A na- 
tion had arisen and proclaimed its freedom, 
had fought, bled and died in the coil of the 
mighty anaconda of war. The Confederates 
had suffered every privation, and many had 
given up their lives for the cause they had so 
nobly espoused. Their bones bleach on 
every battlefield ; many died in northern 
prisons, and found their graves in the land of 
the foeman. They are all at rest, with 
naught but wild birds to sing a requiem over 
their graves, naught but wild flowers to 
bloom above the sod. 

The people, following the example set by 
General Lee, strove to live in peace — in for- 
giveness. How could they? The South had 
too many vacant homes, too many mourning 
families for that. In gloom and disaster, in 
the blood of her most gallant sons, the Con- 
federacy sank to its death. A nation’s flag, 
which had challenged the wonder and admir- 
ation of the world, trailed in the dust. 

“Furl that banner — furl it sadly; 

Once six millions hailed it gladly, 

And ten thousand, wildly, madly. 

Swore it should forever wave — 

Swore that foeman’s sword should never 
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever; 

And that flag should float forever 

O’er their freedom or their graves. 


Darcy Pinckney 


29d 


“Furl it, for the hands that grasped it, 

And the hearts that fondly clasped it. 

Cold and dead, are lying lew; 

And that banner, it is trailing 
While around it sounds the wailing 
Of its people, in their woe. 

For, though conquered, they adore it. 

Love the cold, dead hands that bore it. 

Weep for those who fell before it. 

Pardon those who trailed and tore it, 

O ! how wildly they deplore it 
Now to furl and fold it so.” 

, What could be more expressive than these 
beautiful lines, written by Father A. J. Ryan? 

To proceed. The hatchet, buried in pre- 
tended good faith, was dug up when Presi- 
dent Davis was confined as a prisoner in 
Fortress Monroe. Well might he, the good, 
the great, exclaim, when being shackled with 
fetters of iron, “Oh! the shame, the bitter 
shame!” It was an insult offered through 
him to his people, whose hands had been too 
firml}'- tied to resent the insult ; yet it rankled 
deep in every heart. Our loved President 
proved himself to be true as steel. Yet this, 
though the greatest, was but one among many 
insults offered to the prostrate South by the 
vandal North. 

j|« ^ ^ sK >({ 

The war being over, the young hospital 
nurse, having seen that the youthful soldiers 
who had been entrusted to her care were com- 
fortably settled, bade adieu to the South and 
with her mother sailed for her fair home in 


300 


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Italy. When last she had seen her lover he 
was in the hospital of St. Frances de Sales. 
She must not linger in America. Delicacy for- 
bade. He who had ignored her existence must 
forever be as one dead to her. Yet her heart 
ached as her thoughts went out to him. The 
loss of her brave young brother also filled her 
life with sadness. 

The young soldier, Harry Clifford, was 
away at college, and Will Graham was read- 
ing law in Mr. Walsingham’s office. The 
young girl had received tender, manly letters 
from both boys. 

“How I love Harry and Will!” she said to 
her mother; “and, oh! I hate to leave them.” 

“I too am sorry to leave them. Yet, my 
dear, I wish you to regain your health, and we 
must go home. You have served faithfully 
the noble cause so sadly lost.” 

“A cause, my mother, so just in every re- 
spect, sometimes I wonder if it were worth the 
precious blood so freely given in its defense.” 

The Hartlys, father and son, — ^the latter had 
been an officer in the Confederate army and 
had given an arm to the Lost Cause, — had re- 
turned to New Orleans and were busily en- 
gaged in trying to make life pleasant and com- 
fortable for the dear ones dependent on them 
for support. 

Guy Walsingham had been killed in one of 
the last fierce battles fought on the soil of the 


Darcy Pinckney 


301 


Old Dominion, and his young widow and baby 
son lived at Mr. Hartly’s. 

Colonel Hartly was expecting a visit from 
the young Englishman of whom he was so 
fond. 

“Why, Harry! I am so glad to see you. 
When did you arrive ?” 

“Only a few moments since, and, Ernest, 
I am more than glad to see you,” replied the 
young Englishman, as he grasped warmly 
the proffered hand of the American. 

“Where is your luggage?” 

“At the St. Charles.” 

“Well, ril send around for it. The late 
war has somewhat altered our circum- 
stances, yet, old fellow, you are equally wel- 
come, and all at home will be glad to see you. 
But,” and he threw an arm about the young 
lord’s shoulder, “have you come, Harry, to 
remind me of my promise?” 

“Yes, and I wish you to remember well 
that promise, the fairest of all your fair city’s 
flowers. And you, Ernest?” 

“Ah I mine is only a broken dream.” 

So much pain rang in the man’s clear voice 
that the young lord desisted and hastened to 
change the subject. 

“You say that the Lady Flora did not 
marry?” 

“No! she refused many splendid offers, 
and the summer after you left went to Rome. 
Marian told me that she had taken the veil.” 


302 


Darcy Pinckney 


“I did not know that she intended enter- 
ing a convent.” 

'‘Neither did 1. The subject seemed so 
painful that I forbore making any more in- 
quiries of my friend.” 

"Is the Lady Marian, or, rather, Mrs. Pos- 
onby, well?” 

"Yes, and very happy. Her brother re- 
turned some time ago with his bride. Per- 
haps you have seen her. She lived with her 
stepbrother here for a while. Her name is 
Inez Villiers. She is Lady Marian’s cousin 
and the old lord’s niece. I wrote you all 
about it.” 

"Yes! and Posonby also wrote to me 
about his lovely sister-in-law.” 

After a pause of some moments the Eng- 
lishman said, "My heart was with you in 
your late struggle, Ernest. I was ready to 
leave for America, when St. Leger came, to 
lend a hand to help your suffering country, 
but I was stricken with illness and for three 
years have been a petted invalid in my sis- 
ter’s home. Last spring I was sent by my 
physician to Italy and from there was sent to 
America.” 

"You do look thin, old fellow,” Ernest 
said. Turning him around so that the gas- 
light fell full on his face, he exclaimed, 
"Why, Harry, in the pleasant surprise of the 
moment I did not notice how badly you are 
looking. Harry,” and his tone grew very 


Darcy Pinckney 


303 


grave, ‘‘do you still love the fair face that 
played you false?” 

“Ah! Ernest, it is hard to forget, hard to 
banish a dream, no matter how rudely 
broken.” 

Then to divert his friend’s thoughts he 
asked about political affairs in Italy. 

The young man shrugged his shoulders. 

“Italy is always being revolutionized,” he 
said. What with his Holiness the Pope, 
and with troubles in the interior among both 
soldiers and citizens, there seems always to 
be a turmoil. It is not so pleasant nowadays 
as it once was for a traveler. The soldiers 
are tired of the Pope, and the people of the 
soldiers.” 

“We are nearly at home; again must I 
beg you to excuse our poverty. We were 
nearly ruined by the war, but can manage to 
take care of you, though, and I claim you as 
my guest during your sojourn in our city.” 

“Thanks for your kindness, and yet — ” 

“There ! I will take no refusal. I will send 
around to the hotel for your trunks.” 

“This will be too much trouble, Ernest.” 

“None in the world, and all at home will 
be glad to see my friend.” 

As the parlor door was opened, a pleasant 
picture greeted the young men. The small 
room was furnished with much taste with 
heavy curtains of crimson, a carpet com- 
posed of crimson flowers on a dark-green 


304 


Dai’cy Pinckney 


ground, furniture of solid mahogany, an ele- 
gant center-table, on the clouded marble 
slab of which rested a handsome glass lamp, 
surrounded by richly bound books, a fancy 
basket full of visiting cards, and a couple of 
photographic albums. A superb chandelier 
hung suspended from the ceiling. Several 
handsome pictures, landscapes in oil, 
adorned the walls. On the mantelpiece, 
which was of black marble^ cut and fashioned 
in Italy, rested an Ormolu clock, flanked on 
each side by beautiful flower vases, both of 
which were filled with rare, hothouse flow- 
ers. The bright steel grate, polished brass 
fender, tiny bellows, and neat shovel and 
tongs, helped to beautify the room. There 
was one other charm. Above the mantel- 
piece hung a lovely painting of the head of 
a young girl. The face was perfect in its 
dark, glowing beauty, and at once charmed 
every beholder. Two bronze busts, one of 
Calhoun, the other of Clay, also adorned the 
mantelpiece. But prettier by far than either 
room or ornaments was the group that sat 
around the glowing grate fire. 

Sitting at one side of the center table was 
a man near middle age, engaged in the peru- 
sal of a newspaper. At the other side sat a 
fair, handsome young man. Near him was 
seated a lovely little girl with clear, earnest 
eyes and sunny hair. He was working out a 
problem in algebra for her. They were 


Darcy Pinckney 


305 


brother and sister — Edward and Lily Hume. 
At a side table, playing chess, were a gentle- 
man and lady. The gentleman was tall and 
dark. A crutch leaning against the back of 
his chair told more plainly than words could 
have done that he had been a rebel soldier 
and had been crippled during the war. The 
lady was also dark and stately. The couple 
were Willie Graham, a talented young law- 
yer, and his betrothed bride, Nellie Walsing- 
ham. Nearer the fire sat a lady dressed in 
mourning. A dainty cap of snowy lace half 
hid the exquisite golden-brown hair. A boy 
of nearly two summers sat on her knee play- 
ing with her watch-guard. He was a hand- 
some, dark-haired, bright-eyed child, very 
tender and loving in his childish way to his 
young mother. These were the widow and 
.son of Guy Walsingham, the brave young 
soldier who had fallen in one of the great 
battles fought in Virginia. 

Introductions were soon over, and the 
young stranger thought long before tea- 
time that indeed his lines had fallen in a 
pleasant place. He had been warmly wel- 
comed, soon felt himself perfectly at home, 
and was quickly on a friendly footing with 
Lily, interesting her by telling her about his 
travels. She, childlike, petted and admired 
the delicate invalid. The young English- 
man’s eyes most often rested on his friend’s 


20 


306 


Darcy Pinckney 


widowed sister. There was a charm for him 
in the pure, grave, sweet face. He had often 
heard of her through Ernest’s letters, but 
had never dreamed that she could be half so 
lovely. 

Little Guy was perfectly satisfied, as soon 
as he could perch himself on Uncle Ernest’s 
knee. 

“Here is your candy, pet, and the philo- 
pena gift,” said Ernest, tossing a couple of 
packages in Lily’s lap. 

“Oh ! thanks, brother Ernest, you never 
forget my sweet tooth. And I am so much 
obliged for the book, it is ‘St. Elmo,’ ” and a 
look of pleasure passed over her face, testi- 
fying to the joy she felt. 

“Have you read ‘St. Elmo’ yet?” she asked, 
turning to the nobleman. 

“No, ‘Beula’ is the only one of the cele- 
brated Miss Evans’s works that I have read.” 

“Do you like ‘Beula’ ?” 

“Yes.” 

“I am so glad, for I like ‘Beula.’ ‘Macaria’ 
is pretty too, yet I think that I admire most 
your English Miss Evans. Her ‘Mill on the 
Floss’ is beautiful. And Maggie, and Tom 
Tulliver! Are not they charming?” 

“Her writings are considered fine, yet 
‘Romola’ is my favorite.” 

“ ‘Adam Bede’ is brother Ned’s favorite, 
while brother Ernest thinks that Marian 


Darcy Pinckney 


307 


Harland’s ^Alone’ is superior to any of the 
books that we have named.” 

“I differ with him. ‘Alone’ is certainly very 
interesting, yet I consider ‘Beula’ to be the 
finest work.” 

“Then you shall have the first perusal of 
‘St. Elmo’ !” 

“Lily is your fast friend,” laughed Ernest, 
“or she would never have been willing for 
you to take the first peep into those mystic 
pages. Tell me, is this real unselfishness, 
dear little sister?” 

“I can’t say yes, much as I would like to. 
I must confess, brother Ernest, that I am 
under promise to sister Clara not to look into 
another novel until I finish Lingard’s His- 
tory of England.” 

“Sister Clara will absolve you from this 
promise.” 

“No, I’ll keep my promise; then when I 
do read my book it will afford me double 
pleasure.” 

“That’s right, little one. You shall have 
the finest copy of Meredith’s poems that I 
can find.” 

“You will make me rich, brother Ernest. 
I have not yet shown you the present that 
sister Clara gave me,” she said, as she 
handed the young man a large, beautifully 
bound photographic album. “See, I have 
placed my photographs in it already.” 

They admired both book and pictures, and 


308 


Darcy Pinckney 


each promised the warm-hearted child a pho- 
tograph of himself. Then she turned away 
to pet her little nephew. 

Days merged into weeks, and still Lord 
Neville lingered in New Orleans. 

One day Ernest said laughingly, “I have 
not yet shown you the fair face that was to 
win your heart.” 

‘T am in no haste to see her, Ernest, yet, 
old fellow, tell me who was the lady to whom 
you alluded when in England, for I know it 
was some lady in particular?” 

“It was Miss Nellie Walsingham. But you 
see the young rebel who was sent to study 
law under her father, has forestalled you.” 

“She is beautiful. I must confess that I 
like blonde beauty best. I feel perfectly free 
from the old love and know now that it was 
only a boyish passion.” 

“I am glad to hear this, and, Harry, I hope 
that you will bestow your heart on some fair 
American. I would give Lily to you, but 
she is only a school girl yet. But come, it is 
time we were going to the theater. Dorsay 
Ogden is the principal actor to-night.” 

“Will your sister go?” 

“No! Clara never mixes in any kind of 
gaiety now.” 

“Does she always appear so sad?” 

“She has been livelier, and more like her 
former self since you came than she has been 
since Guy’s death,” 


Darcy Pinckney 


309 


Days passed on and still Lord Neville tar- 
ried, a welcome guest in Mr. Hartly’s home. 
Lily and he were firm friends, and he had be- 
come a constant attendant of the fair young 
widow, while Mr. Hartly laughingly said that 
baby Guy had deserted his old friends for 
this new one, for the child never seemed sat- 
isfied unless being petted by Lord Neville. 
The mother’s face flushed at the gentleman’s 
approach. 

One evening as the young men were re- 
turning from a pleasure excursion the si- 
lence was broken by Lord Neville saying in 
an earnest voice, “Hartly, you told me some 
time ago that were Lily old enough, you 
would give her to me,” and a flush of embar- 
rassment covered his face. “I love the fair- 
est flower in this fair city. It is not like the 
other love. That, as I told you, was only a 
boyish fancy; this is the sacred love of my 
manhood. Will you bid me God-speed with 
my wooing?” 

“Yes! on my soul I do. I know that she 
must be very charming. Yet — you have not 
told me the lady’s name,” Ernest said, affec- 
tionately throwing his arm around the young 
man’s shoulder. 

“Don’t think me presumptuous, Ernest, 
when I tell you that I love your sister, that 
I wish to rob your home of its chief treasure. 
Yet before I seek my fate I would like to 
know that you were pleased.” 


310 


Darcy Pinckney 


'‘Harry! believe me when I say that I 
could not wish my sister a richer blessing 
than your warm, devoted love ; that I know 
of no one to whom I would so quickly trust 
the keeping of her happiness; also that a 
more priceless treasure than her love could 
not be bestowed on you. Do not think 
this only a brother’s fond partiality — ” his 
voice trembled — ‘‘ytt, my friend, I think that 
her heart will always rest yonder in a sol- 
dier’s bloody grave.” 

A deathly pallor overspread the fine, open 
face. 

"You think, then, that there is no hope 
for me?” 

"No! I do not say so, only that you must 
not be too sanguine. I wish that she could 
be won from her lost love. Don’t think me 
heartless, but she is surely killing herself. 
Had it not been for her child, she would 
have died long ago.” 

Several days later Lord Neville met the 
coveted opportunity. Entering the drawing- 
room he found Clara alone. In a moment he 
was at her side and with almost boyish in- 
coherency poured forth his love. 

"Mrs. Walsingham, I love you truly, de- 
votedly. It is for your sweet sake that I 
have lingered here. You are the enchant- 
ress who has caused me to linger away from 
home so long. Will you go with me as my 
wife to that fair English home ? ' Clara ! do 


Darcy Pinckney 


311 


not say me nay! I cannot, do not ask for 
your first love ; only give me a place in your 
heart. I will be so gentle, loyal, and true. 
Guy,” as the child came into the room, “ask 
mamma to love me I” 

“You do love him, don’t you?” lisped the 
baby voice. 

“Hush ! my darling,” then, as a flush 
passed over her grave, gentle face, she said, 
“Lord Neville, I am so sorry I had not 
thought of this. I have no love to bestow. 
My only love fills a soldier’s grave ; my heart 
mourns for him yet; I can never wed an- 
other.” 

Her voice was low and firm, yet she pitied 
him as she noted his pallid face and quiver- 
ing lips. 

“You do not think that I knew anything 
of this?” 

“No! how can I think so, loving you as I 
do.” 

“I hope you will find some one more 
worthy of you.” 

“That can never be;” and his voice be- 
came as firm as her own. “I swear never to 
marry any one but you ! I must now bid you 
adieu as in an hour’s time I leave for Eng- 
land. No one except Ernest knows of this.” 

An hour later when Ernest entered his 
room, he was both pained and surprised to 
find his friend busy preparing to depart. 

“Not going to leave us!” 


312 


Darcy Pinckney 


‘‘Yes! I am fated, Ernest, never to be loved 
by woman. I staked all upon the die and lost. 
I leave your shores a sadder man than when I 
came.’' 

“Old friend, from my heart I am sorry for 
you,” and he wrung the young man’s hand. 
“Harry, I had hoped to call you brother.” 


CHAPTER XX 


It was evening, a fair sunny evening in 
Italy. The nuns were walking about in the 
convent garden. Those who had not yet 
taken the veil were even going beyond the 
convent walls. A dark, delicate-looking 
lady — at the first glance one could see that 
her origin was Spanish — was seated beneath 
a large tree. A crimson pomegranate blos- 
som, with which she had been toying, lay 
unheeded in her lap. She was gazing at a 
tall, stately figure kneeling on the green 
sward at her feet. 

“Phil, I am so glad you have returned!” 

“Yes, my darling, and I return a differ- 
ent man from the Phil whom you sent from 
you on that sad evening more than four 
years ago to do battle in behalf of the South. 
I have come now to claim my guerdon, to 
claim yourself. Are you mine?” 

“Phil, I promised to marry you on your 
return, and yet you will have faith in me a 
little longer?” 

“Yes, forever, my darling,” was his low, 
earnest reply. 

“There is a tale of treachery and wrong, 
and you must right it. Then you can set 
the day when I will change my name for that 
of the man dearest on earth to me.” 


314 


Darcy Pinckney 


“Veronica, or as I love best to call you, 
Inez, say you so ? Do you love as you loved 
me in the old time when we were girl and 
boy? Do you love me, Inez?” 

His tone was eager and excited, while his 
fine dark face flushed with love and hope. 

“Ask your own heart that question, Phil! 
You will find my answer there. Even 
though I knew you were throwing yourself 
away, yet I loved you. Not for one moment 
did my love change. After many years of 
waiting you came. Did I not convince you 
of my love by sending you to draw a sword 
in behalf of the people for whom my sympa- 
thies were enlisted? All through those long- 
years of bloodshed did I not listen for news 
of you? I heard that which gave me many 
a heart-thrill of pride and love. Now you 
were gallantly charging at the head of a 
brigade, again bending with almost womanly 
tenderness over the couch of a wounded 
friend, or nursing a sick comrade. Oh ! 
Phil, my king, you kept your vow nobly. 
For my own happiness I could not break my 
promise to you! I seal that promise now.” 

Shyly, lovingly, her soft arms were wound 
around his neck, her face pressed against his 
own, her perfumed hair mingling with his 
locks of jet, then for a moment her lips, 
light as a roseleaf, rested against his. 

“God bless you, Inez! and make 
worthy of your love.” 


me 


Darcy Pinckney 


315 


“Hush! For your past you must pray to 
be forgiven; your present is void of blame; 
your future can only be bright for you will 
make it so. Yet, as I have said, you must 
right this wrong! There is a sick man here 
who has unfolded to me such a tale of false- 
hood and deceit.” She added, “Will you 
promise to take this package to a Mr. Ernest 
Hardy in New Orleans? Tell him it was 
sent by a nun in Italy and that his lady love 
is still true.” 

Then in low, rapid tones she told him the 
story as it was told to her. 

“But, Inez, do you not know that it was 
this man’s sister whom I abducted in a fit of 
madness ?” 

“Yes, I know it.” 

“How then can I meet him?” 

“Is not the promised reward large 
enough? I know I have neither silver nor 
gold to offer.” 

“Do not talk so, dear one. Yes; I will go, 
and will also beg the lady’s forgiveness. I 
will tell her that my good angel sent me. 
When I return I may claim you as my own, 
my very own. Tell me this once more, dear 
Inez;” and his voice trembled with emo- 
tion. 

“Yes, Phil, when you return yon may 
claim the hand promised you so long ago; not 
the gay, blooming girl you then wooed, but 
the pale-faced woman you have won. 


316 


Darcy Pinckney 


Through all these years this has been my 
dearest treasure. Have I not been faithful?’' 

And she unclasped a miniature and held 
the handsome, boyish face toward him. 

“Yes! more than faithful, and I will try to 
prove worthy of you.” 

“You have proved yourself worthy, dear! 
and I am very proud of you!” 

“Kiss me once before I go, sweet Inez! 
With God’s blessing not many sunsets shall 
there be till I return to claim my treasure.” 

Stooping toward him her lips lightly 
touched his, and with a gentle “God bless 
you” she was gone. The tall, stately man 
gazed with a look of adoration after the 
graceful figure. 

“I will do my good angel’s bidding,” he 
murmured, “and perhaps by bringing happi- 
ness to other hearts I may taste of happiness 
myself. Ah! sweet lady, how I love you.” 

That same afternoon he set sail for the 
United States. Being a very proud man, he 
displayed a noble trait in the promise he had 
made to confess and ask pardon for the great 
error of which he had been guilty. His dark 
face flushed with shame when he thought of 
the days and nights of rioting when he was 
known as wild Phil Walker. It was the love 
held in his heart all those years for the young 
foreign girl that finally saved him. He had 
gone to Europe and confessed all to the girl 
he so fondly loved. She made him promise to 


Darcy Pinckney 


317 


bear his own dead father’s name, even though 
he lost a fortune by so doing. She then sent 
him to strike a blow for the Sunny South, the 
land that gave him birth. He joined the Con- 
federate army, and by gallantry on many hotly 
contested battlefields arose to rank and dis- 
tinction, and by so doing redeemed himself 
from all stain of dishonor. He had won his 
spurs, and had laid his laurels at her feet. 
He would do this, her second bidding — the 
boon would be her own sweet self. It had 
been to secure a fortune that he had been called 
by the name of a dead kinsman, though as a 
child he had rebelled against assuming it — not- 
withstanding, he grew up as Phil Walker, and 
was known by no other name until he joined 
the Confederate army as Darcy Pinckney, the 
name of his father and his own baptismal 
name. 

On arriving in New Orleans he went with- 
out delay to the residence of Mr. Hartly. 

“A gentleman to see Mr. Hartly !” and the 
servant handed a card to that gentleman. 

‘‘General Pinckney/’ he read, then turning 
to the waiter said, “Show the gentleman in.” 

“Good morning, Mr. Hartly.” 

“Good morning, General Pinckney. Pray 
be seated.” 

“I have but little time to spare. I was on 
my way to your city, and hearing that you 
were here made bold to call upon you, as I 
promised to deliver this package to yourself 


318 Darcy Pinckney 

with the message that Nina had never been 
untrue to you.” 

The young man grew deathly pale and al- 
most staggered. He passed his hand across 
his eyes as though blinded by sudden joy. 

“Are you trifling with me?” he asked 
hoarsely. 

“As God is my witness, no! The pack- 
age will tell you all.” 

“This is the only ray of hope that has 
come to me for years. How can I thank 
you ?” 

“By forgiving me for what happened so 
long ago. You learned that Miss Hume was 
your sister. I am the wild Phil Walker of 
those days ; a better man now, I trust. May I 
hope that you will forgive me?” 

For a second the young men gazed at each 
other. 

Ernest was the first to break the silence. 
Stepping forward, offering his hand, he said, 
“Are you the Darcy Pinckney, of Virginia, the 
famous cavalry officer whom General Lee 
complimented so highly?” 

“I am!” was the reply. 

“I think that I saw you at the hospital, the 
St. Francis de Sales.” 

“Yes! You remember right. I was there 
when you were wounded.” 

“You have been a brave soldier and I 
doubt not you are a gallant gentleman. Let 
the dead past bury its dead.” 


Darcy Pinckney 


319 


“And your sister !” 

“Has forgiven you long since.” 

“I have business to attend to here. I sup- 
pose you would like to examine the pack- 
age.” 

Bowing, he left the room, yet not till Mr. 
Hartly had made him promise to sup with 
him the same night. 

What was his surprise on opening the en- 
velope to find several letters from Nina 
dated long since. Letters affectionate and 
tender, breathing sentiments pure and warm 
from her true young heart. He could real- 
ize the wealth of love that had been neg- 
lected through all those long years. 

The letter bearing the latest date told 
that the writer had had a note from himself 
in which he had spoken of business. This 
letter said that if he wished his freedom to 
consider the engagement broken. A few 
more lines, politely worded, and the letter 
was finished. This was the original; the 
one he had received was a clever forgery and 
ten times more cutting. The ring she 
would put away and send to him. The ring 
— he had it then— was it not placed upon his 
finger, after the battle of Antietam, by a cav- 
alry officer, so he had been told? Had it not 
rested next his heart ever since as a proof 
of woman’s falsity? Now all things were be- 
ing unravelled and made clear. His own 
letters had been intercepted and returned to 


320 


Darcy Pinckney 


him. Her letters had also been intercepted 
and kept, and notes forged both to Nina and 
himself. 

The nun! Who was she, that could have 
been capable of such baseness? It was true 
he had many acquaintances among the dark- 
eyed daughters of Italy, yet none of these 
he knew could have stooped to this. 

A joyousness shone in the man’s dark 
eyes. He was still beloved. He would first 
visit the convent. A thrill of joy filled his 
heart, for perhaps it was Nina who had re- 
ceived and sent this package. He would 
ask Pinckney, who on his return told him the 
story of his love for the dark-eyed Inez, and 
also that he had promised to seek Mrs. Wal- 
singham’s forgiveness. 

Hardy replied, ''Return with me to the 
convent. Introduce me to your intended 
bride. I will convince her of my sister’s par- 
don for yourself and then, if you are both 
willing, will give her to you in marriage. If 
you still wish it your wedding tour can be to 
America, your home while there my father’s 
house. I say defer your visit because my 
sister will go to the North for her health. 
I think that your sweet friend in the convent 
has waited long enough. Will you agree to 
my proposition?” 

“Yes, as Mrs. Walsingham will not be at 
home my visit there would be fruitless. My 


Darcy Pinckney 321 

heart feels lighter since assured of her for- 
giveness.” 

Only two weeks from the time of his depart- 
ure from the convent he returned. It was 
with astonishment that Inez met him, the 
more so on seeing his companion, for Hartly 
had accompanied him, while Lord Neville 
had left them and gone on to southern Italy 
to join some English friends, the Posonbys 
and young Lord Alfred Villiers and his 
bride. 

It was with admiration that Ernest gazed 
at the lovely Spanish girl. He was surprised 
when she was introduced to him as Miss Ve- 
ronica Mendoza. 

“You are, you must be, my Nina’s cousin,” 
he said in an eager voice. 

“I have kindred here in Italy,” she replied, 
“but it is a long while since I have seen them. 
I only remember my aunt and my cousin Car- 
los. Nina was very small when we met last, 
and I, too, was a little child. I have heard 
but little of these relatives for I was sent to 
a Spanish convent and but lately came to 
Italy. Pardon my seeming rudeness, but are 
you the gentleman in whom my cousin is in- 
terested ?” 

“I have the honor of being the same.” 

“Then I may hope to claim you as a rela- 
tive,” she gently said, offering him her 
hand. 


21 


322 


Darcy Pinckney 


“I will be both proud and happy to call 
you cousin/’ he replied as he kissed the 
small hand. 

The lady told him of the great wrong that 
had been done. 

“Her name ! tell me her name ! I did not 
know that I had an enemy.” 

“The Lady Flora Villiers.” 

“I did not dream that she would have 
wronged me thus. How such a heart could 
beat beneath so lovely an exterior I cannot 
imagine.” 

“And yet,” said Darcy, “when you hear 
all you may pardon even her for this griev- 
ous sin. Her mother died a lunatic. She 
was an only child and grew up lovely, wilful 
and proud, expecting the adoration of all 
who came near her. Her only reason for 
dislike to you was because you did not ap- 
preciate her beauty. When she hated she 
became a monomaniac; and she chose the 
surest way to ruin you. I am sorry for both 
your betrothed and yourself and feel pity 
deep in my heart for my unhappy cousin.” 

“Will, this English lady see me?” asked 
Ernest Hartly. 

“She begged me to say that she would 
meet you in the cathedral at 9 o’clock to- 
night.” 

Darcy said a few, hurried words to the 
Spanish girl A rosy flush passed over her 
face. 


Darcy Pinckney 


323 


“So soon,” she murmured, “will it not 
seem hasty, nay unmaidenly?” 

“Not if you love me, my darling! Say, 
sweet one, shall I have my way in this? You 
will never have cause to regret your trust.” 

The eager voice trembled, while the hand- 
some face flushed. She could not resist the 
eloquent pleading voice ; nor the impas- 
sioned glance of the clear dark eyes. A light 
pressure of her hand was the reply. His fine 
face grew radiant. 

“Mr. Hardy,” he said, “will you give me 
my bride?” 

“With pleasure, my dear Darcy,” replied 
the American. 

It was night. The cathedral was splend- 
idly illuminated. The stained windows, the 
beautiful fresco work of Florence, the snowy 
marble cherubim and seraphim that up- 
held the fluted columns, the wax figures of 
the Virgin-mother, whose Madonna-like 
face looked angelic in the bright light, and 
the innocent face of the infant Saviour all 
served to make the place as solemn as it was 
magnificent. The glow from the tall wax 
tapers fell full on the figure of a black-robed 
priest, a noble looking old man with silvery 
hair, and bowed frame, also the figures of 
several novices kneeling around the railing 
before the altar telling their beads and pat- 
tering forth their Ave Marias. Their de- 


324 


Darcy Pinckney 


votions over they arose and silently walked 
away. The priest alone remained. 

'Tt is almost time they were coming/' he 
murmured. “Strange, a marriage and a 
woman’s confession at the same time.” 

His revery was broken by a grand peal 
which arose from the organ, filling the 
church with glorious music, and as several 
persons walked up the aisle it pealed forth 
yet more grandly. One, a tall stately 
woman, closely veiled, then a small, slight 
figure clad in robes of snowy lawn, a wreath 
on her dark hair, and with a veil of fleecy 
lace that enveloped her slender form and 
fell in folds even to the marble floor. Two 
gentlemen accompanied the petite figure, 
while the tall lady walked in stately and 
alone. A couple of young girls, novices, 
slowly followed. 

Reaching the altar railings they paused, 
while the aged bishop, asking them to kneel, 
said a short but impressive prayer. On ar- 
rising from their prayers he began the cere- 
mony, which was all the more solemn, not 
only because of the few spectators, but also 
because of the deep silence of the place. 

Ernest Hartly gave the sweet young bride 
away, and ere many moments had passed 
Veronica Mendoza had become the wife of 
the man whom she had loved so long and so 
fondly. 

Just as the ceremony was finished a shriek 


Darcy Pinckney 


325 


broke the stillness. Turning, they saw that 
one of the novices had fainted, while the 
other was supporting the veiled lady. 
Hartly sprang to assist her. She unflinch- 
ingly tore a dagger from her side and blood 
in a crimson torrent spouted out on the 
marble steps, staining their snowy whiteness 
with a sanguine hue. 

“Lay me there !” she said, pointing to the 
velvet cushion of a pew, the door of which 
was open. The young man did as she de- 
sired. 

“Don’t look so horror-stricken, father!” 
she said, addressing the bishop. If my other 
sins were as light as this one, I might hope 
to be forgiven; yet you will have masses 
said for my poor soul.” 

“You are not a Catholic, Flora?” 

“Yes, Phil, I have always been one. This 
was a part of my education at the convent 
in France. But my breath lags!” Turning 
to the bishop, she said, “Father! I came here 
to make a confession, not thinking it would 
be so ghastly a one as this. Yet I have, at 
best, robbed death of only a few hours, for 
a disease is eating my life away and I was 
weary of life. I grew up, father, beautiful, 
vain, and callous, thinking only of bringing 
men to my feet, loving only one and he cold 
to my love, the love I gave unsought, un- 
asked. I tried to win Mr. Hartly’s admira- 
tion. He never liked me and always avoided 


32 G Darcy Pinckney 

me. This aroused both pride and anger. I 
vowed to be revenged. When did a woman 
ever fail to wreak the vendetta when taken? 
I could only bide my time. At last it came. 
I could stab his heart through the lady to 
whose beauty he bowed in allegiance. I ob- 
tained a sample of his writing, followed the 
lady to Rome, intercepted their letters and 
forged such as I wished them to receive. 
The postmaster was in my power. I made 
him my tool. When the war in the United 
States broke out their estrangement was 
complete. Then I lost sight of both the 
countess and her lovely daughter. Yes! I 
had fulfilled my vow of vengeance. Yet, was 
still unsatisfied. The man that I loved had 
gone I knew not whither. I sought but 
could find no trace of him and until this 
night thought him dead. I came here to end 
my days in solitude and prayer. The Sig- 
norina Veronica has been very kind. I 
thank her for it. I gave her a package to 
send to Mr. Hartly for me, also a message. 
I thought that this might perhaps purchase 
for me a moment of peace. She told me of 
her marriage to-night to General Darcy Pinck- 
ney. I little thought I would meet a face I 
thought to be under the sod.” 

Her voice grew more feeble, and the dim 
eyes wandered to the man of whom she had 
been speaking. 

‘T should not have been surprised, because 


Darcy Pinckney 


327 


Pinckney was his right name — Walker only a 
name adopted by his father. I could not live 
and know that I was still unloved. Father, 
remember your promise to have masses said 
for the soul of Sister Rose who died last 
week. My property is to pay for masses for 
her soul and mine, and the rest of my money 
must go to the church. Forgive me! You 
will all go away, and I will be at rest. Pray 
for me, Phil.” 

Her hand groped for his. He clasped the 
thin, wasted hand in his own and bending 
over her he said in low, gentle tones, “I am 
so sorry for this, poor little one,” while tears 
filled his eyes. 

“There, be true to yourself. Your bride is 
an angel. Ah 1 it is hard to die, Phil, the 
valley is so dark, and oh! the waters are 
closing round me. The gentle Saviour was 
kind to the thief on the cross. Oh! will 
He—” 

Her voice grew weaker, her breath be- 
came more feeble, a chalky hue overspread 
the beautiful face, the death-dew was already 
scattered over the fair brow, for Azrael had 
baptized her as his own. 

“Can we do nothing for you? Are you in 
pain, cousin?” 

The man’s voice trembled with pity as he 
spoke. 

“No! nothing. I am not in pain, I only 
long to be at rest.” 


328 


Darcy Pinckney 


A shade clouded the dim eyes, the lids 
quivered, the long lashes drooped on the 
pallid face, her head fell forward on the 
young bride’s shoulder, a faint sigh escaped 
her pale lips, her soul was with her Maker. 
Even as the clock chimed the hour of mid- 
night she perchance walked in Paradise. 
The vain heart had broken, the proud spirit 
had grown weary, the lovely form had 
turned to clay, the soul had gone to the one 
who gave it. She was at rest. 

The spectacle was indeed both sad and 
solemn. The light now burning dimly cast- 
ing faint, fitful gleams here and there, now 
playing on the face of the bride, then over 
the fair face forever stilled, the silence 
broken only by the weeping of the young 
novices, a great pool of blood on the marble 
steps and blood dripping slowly to the 
marble floor. The gentle eyes of the Virgin- 
mother seemed even more sad and holy, 
while a gleam of pity seemed to fill the face 
of the Holy Child, the infant Son of God. 

The aged bishop offered up a prayer for 
the erring one who had closed her eyes on 
earth. The organ struck up a strange, sol- 
emn tune, “The Redeemer Liveth,” which 
was not more beautiful than the “Ave Maria, 
mother mild, smile and bless thy sinful child. 
Ave Maria, mother dear, take to rest the 
dead one here,” an impromptu sung by the 


Darcy Pinckney 329 

young sisters when the organ ceased play- 
ing. 

The Mother Superior was summoned, the 
body was carried to a hall in the convent 
where it was robed in white before it was 
placed in the coffin. All night long three 
silent watchers sat there, Ernest Hartly, 
Darcy Pinckney, and she so lately made a 
wife and whose marriage had been bap- 
tized in blood. Silent and thoughtful were 
those watchers, each busy with his own 
thoughts. Ernest thought of when he last 
had seen her, the reigning belle, the ac- 
knowledged beauty of Queen Victoria’s 
court, the cynosure of all eyes, the idol of 
one manly heart. She had sinned and suf- 
fered, for had she not said that she had loved 
and was herself unloved. He had felt for 
her during that sad recital. He had pitied 
and forgiven and he trusted that all was well, 
that ere then she had entered the pearly gate 
of heaven. 

Pinckney thought long and deeply. Sadness 
filled his face. He had only loved her with a 
cousinly affection. It filled his heart with 
sorrow to learn of the love so jealously hid- 
den from him. He now remembered many 
things which served to convince him of her 
love. He recalled the conversation on the 
night of her birthday ball when he had taken 
his sister to England. Now he knew why 
she had wished his sister’s gems. It was to 


330 


Darcy Pinckney 


enrich the Church of Rome. He could not 
but feel sad. Was this an ill omen to him? 

Veronica gazed at the lovely face so fair 
and sweet, and did not wonder that men had 
gone mad, that hearts had broken for the 
sake of the loveliness lying there. In her 
heart she, too, prayed that the silent sleeper 
walked with God. She pitied deeply the er- 
ring one, and, stooping, pressed a kiss upon 
the lifeless lips. 

Two days later the Lady Flora Villiers 
was buried, Ernest Hartly remaining to pay 
the last sad tribute of respect to the dead, 
that of following the remains to the grave. 
She was buried as she desired, beneath a 
weeping willow near the convent walls. A 
cross of pure white marble was placed at the 
head of the grave. A simple slab, bearing 
her name and age, covered the grave, and 
they left her who had been so beautiful, an 
inhabitant of the silent city — the city of the 
dead. 


CHAPTER XXI 


Once more we visit the Villa Catelone. It 
is near noon of a pleasant day. Two ladies 
are seated in a magnificent drawing-room, 
both engaged in embroidering. 

“Those four years seem so strange to me, 
Nina, in fact the past is more like a dream 
than reality.” 

“You were in such bad health, mamma 
dear! You are getting well again and must 
not let your thoughts dwell too much on the 
past.” 

“If only your brother had lived and — ” 

The lady paused. 

^‘And Ernest had proved true, is what you 
would have added, is it not, mother?” 

“Yes, my dear.” 

“I have never fully doubted his faith.” 

“Why, Nina, what more proof would you 
have wished than his letters?” 

“Yet, mother, my heart would have 
broken long ago had I not thought that 
some strange mistake was connected with 
our unhappiness. I felt that I could not be 
the first to clear it away, it would have 
seemed unmaidenly. And I will always love 
him. I do not know why it is, yet, mamma, 
my heart feels very light this evening. 
Yonder comes a cavalier. Oh! mother, he 


^32 Darcy Pinckney 

is the image of Carlos. Did I not know that 
he was lying in a soldier’s grave in Virginia 
I would greet him as my brother.” 

The young man dismounted and entered 
the room. How could they mistake the gal- 
lant tread, the splendid face and noble bear- 
in? 

“Oh! my son.” 

“My mother! My darling mother!” 

Mother and son met in a close embrace. 

“I have traveled night and day to see you 
both. I have thought of only three words — 
mother, sister, home — the dearest words on 
earth to me. I was captured at Gettysburg 
and imprisoned at Point Lookout. After the 
war was over I was sent to the Dry Tortu- 
gas. The commandant fancied me enough 
to obtain my release.” 

They, in turn, told of their serving in Vir- 
ginia as Sisters of Mercy. Also of the young 
soldier, the silent sleeper in the cathedral. 

“Why, mother, it was my cousin, Pedro 
Mendoza. You remember he had a sister 
named after yourself. She, cousin Veronica, 
is still in a convent. I met Pedro after I 
left you. He belonged to the Confederate 
army. We resembled each other very much. 
I heard from a friend that he fell in Virginia. 
It was him that you mistook for me.” 

“Yes, it must have been your cousin. He 
fell in a gallant cause and for a noble people. 


Darcy Pinckney 


333 


I feel sad when I think of him, yet am thank- 
ful, dear, that you were spared to me.” 

‘'I, too, feel sorry that Pedro died. He 
was a gallant fellow, so brave and handsome, 
and such a favorite with all who knew him. 
We must seek for his sister, and extend to 
her our love and sympathy.” 

“She may have taken the veil long ere 
this.” 

“No, mother, she has never thought of 
doing so. Pedro told me she was betrothed 
to a rebel colonel. Our conversation was in- 
terrupted and he said he would tell me all 
some other time, yet it was fated that we 
should never meet again.” 

“I will be very glad to meet your cousin. 
Her mother was my dearest friend, the cher- 
ished sister of my girlhood, my poor Nina !” 

Days lengthened into weeks but still no 
tidings came to cheer the young girl’s heart. 
Her step became listless and her face grew 
pale. Both mother and brother observed 
with anxiety the sadness, the weariness, that 
rested on her lovely face. One day she was 
sitting near an open window, although it 
was cool and wintry, turning, not reading, 
the pages of “Roland Yorke.” Her reverie 
was broken by a question from the young 
man. 

“Have you any correspondents in the 
South, sister?” 


334 


Darcy Pinckney 


‘‘Yes, two, both soldiers, whom I be- 
friended during the war.” 

“They still cherish your memory, then?” 

“Yes, those beautiful pictures and costly 
books are their gifts. They send me many 
of the late publications.” 

“Are they in good circumstances, sister?” 
he asked, not merely because he was inter- 
ested but because he also wished to wean 
her from sad thoughts. 

“Yes, Willie Graham, besides being very 
talented, is also rapidly accumulating wealth. 
He is engaged to be married to his benefac- 
tor’s daughter. Harry Clifford is married. 
There is a picture he sent to me, the portrait 
of his baby girl, my namesake.” 

She pointed to a handsome framed por- 
trait. It was only the head and face of an 
infant, yet a very lovely one. There was 
portrayed the same fair, laughing face, 
golden hair, blue eyes, and sunny smile of 
the young father. The name, in gilt letters, 
was Nina Clifford. 

“It is a sweet little face, sister, and very 
much like the photograph of Mr. Clifford in 
your album. He is wealthy now, is he not?” 

“Yes; a large sum of money left to him 
by an uncle who died in India, rewarded the 
boy’s patience and care of an invalid mother 
and little sister, and also enabled him to 
marry a sweet young girl to whom he had 
been betrothed from childhood.” 


Darcy Pinckney 


335 


“Was he his mother’s sole support?” 

“Since the war he has been their only sup- 
port. His brother, who until then had taken 
the care of the family and also of Harry’s, 
was killed in the last battle fought on Virginia 
soil. He was very brave and stood high 
among the southern officers.” 

“And your young friend moved from the 
old home?” 

“Yes, the first act of this kind son was to 
move to South Carolina, as his mother 
yearned to see the home of her childhood 
and the place where her girlhood had been 
passed. So he bought the old place on the 
Pee Dee, and went there. His sister is 
a lovely child. He sends her to school in 
Charleston. Harry farms on a small scale 
and is engaged in business, owning stores in 
several southern cities. He married a Miss 
Huger, and they reside happily together 
with his mother. 

“I am glad to hear that your proteges are 
doing so well.” 

“Poor boys! They deserve fully the rich 
reward that a merciful Father has seen fit 
to bestow on them.” 

“Yes, dear sister, and they owe much in 
return for your kindness to them. I never 
knew how proud I was of you until now,” 
and he tenderly smoothed her soft, dark hair. 

“Thanks, dear brother,” she exclaimed. 


336 


Darcy Pinckney 


gazing affectionately at the handsome face 
of the speaker. 

The fond mother’s look grew more anx- 
ious as she earnestly watched her daughter. 
She knew that beneath the calm exterior the 
young heart was almost breaking, that even 
while speaking her heart was far away with 
the man to whom her love had been given, 
and between whom and herself some sad 
misunderstanding had come as a dark 
shadow to blight their lives. 

The mother heart yearned over her dar- 
ling child. She feared that she herself had 
committed an error in not having tried to 
clear up the mystery. The gentle lady could 
scarcely repress a feeling of anger against 
the man who had caused her daughter so 
much sorrow, sorrow that would cleave to 
her through all her after life. 

“I must go now, dear mother, and attend 
to the business which you intrusted to my 
care. Have you any commission to give me, 
sweet sister?” 

‘‘Yes, brother. Will you mail these letters 
for me? Then please call on Lord Villiers, 
who I see by recent papers has arrived here. 
I wish to learn if it is the young nobleman 
who married little Inez. You know she is 
our cousin also. I would like very much to 
see her.” 

“I will do your bidding with pleasure, dear 
sister.” 


Darcy Pinckney 


337 


When they were alone the countess drew 
nearer to the young girl. 

“My darling, your heart grieves yet, while 
I, your mother, must watch this grief unable 
to lighten it.” 

“Dear mother, do not be troubled. I am 
ungrateful. I ought to be content with your 
and my brother’s love. And he, mamma! 
Oh ! I cannot think him unworthy, yet if he 
had cared for me he surely would have 
sought me before this. He never could have 
written that cold, cruel letter. It was not his 
nature, mamma. Even as a boy he could 
never wound the feelings of another. I feel 
that he would never have wounded mine. 
He loved me, mother.” As she said this her 
face blanched. “I know that in the years 
gone by he loved me, yet thinking me false, 
he had a perfect right to seek another to be 
his bride. We are separated forever. I can 
bear it, for, mamma, Willie writes to me that 
Ernest is engaged to a Virginia beauty, a 
Miss Surry, who is in New Orleans and visits 
a good deal at papa’s — Mr. Hardy’s, I should 
say.” 

“I fear, Nina, that you did wrong in not 
sending your address to Willie Graham. Er- 
nest might have learned that you had been 
true to him.” 

“If he really doubted me, mamma, it is 
better so.” 


22 


338 


Darcy Pinckney 


The sweet lips quivered while the dark 
eyes became filled with unshed tears. 

“Mamma, you promised once to tell me 
about your girlhood. Will you tell me 
now?” Nina said, seating herself with grace- 
ful abandon on the cushion at her mother’s 
feet. 

“Yes, dear,” and the lady’s slender fingers 
played with the silky hair of the head resting 
on her knee. “It seems but as yesterday 
that I was a gay, laughing girl in this my 
happy home. I grew up, as I was often told, 
lovely and accomplished. There was more 
than one suitor for my hand; one, a wealthy 
American, won my heart and to him I be- 
came engaged. It was he who gave me 
those drawings that you think so exquisite. 
He was a noted artist and those pictures 
were painted by his hand. Domestic 
troubles broke off our engagement. It has 
been many years, child, since I parted with 
the first love of my girlhood. Many years 
ago, yet the memory of that sad parting 
often haunts me now. It was on a sad, 
gloomy morning that my father summoned 
me to the library. Sitting near him was my 
young boy cousin, your father, who abruptly 
left the room. He, Carlos Mendoza, was 
considered to be one of the handsomest and 
most talented among the youth of Italy. I 
knew he had set up an idol and that I was 
that idol. I could not treat him who was al- 


Darcy Pinckney 


339 


ways so courteous and gentle with coldness. 
As tenderly as if he had been my brother did 
I love him; yet the words spoken by my fa- 
ther sent a thrill of despair to my heart. 

“ ^Inez, I have sent for you to ask your 
consent to the cancellation of a debt of grati- 
tude, and to seal an oath made to a dying 
friend. You will marry your cousin Carlos.’ 

“ ‘Oh ! father, I cannot. I am affianced to 
another.’ 

“A look of distress, mingled with despair, 
passed over his face. 

“ ‘I cannot, will not command you, child, 
yet read this,’ and he handed me a docu- 
ment written at the deathbed of my mother’s 
brother, in which my father swore that as 
soon as practicable my cousin and I should 
be united in matrimony. Could I, his favor- 
ite child, break his oath? My pale, distressed 
face filled him with sorrow. 

“ ‘Oh, Inez, my little girl, this might have 
been spared me. Listen, while I disclose to 
you the story of my shame. While I was a 
boy at college I was urged to do a deed of 
sin at which my whole after life revolted. It 
made me, a scion of one of the most noble 
houses in Italy, one of the lowest criminals. 
I was wild and dissipated. Night after night 
found me bending over the gaming table, 
or the boon companion of a set as wild and 
reckless as myself. I ran in debt. Account 
after account did my lenient father settle, 


340 


Darcy Pinckney 


until at last even his leniency failed. In a fit 
of drunken madness — oh ! that the shame of 
this recital had been spared me — I signed the 
name of another, became a forger.’ 

‘‘My father clasped his hands over his face, 
while hoarse sobs shook his frame. It is 
terrible to see a strong man weep, more ter- 
rible still to see him sob with agony and re- 
morse. I drew my arms about his neck and 
in low tones tried to soothe him. 

“ ‘My most cherished college friend,’ he 
continued, ‘at the risk of his own good name, 
saved mine from public disgrace. From 
that hour I became a better man, bade fare- 
well to cards and the wine cup, left those 
who had been my boon companions, and 
strove by deeds of mercy and kindness to 
blot out the awful stain upon my name. My 
friend married, and a few months later gave 
me his peerless sister in marriage, but not 
until he had told her all. She, womanlike, 
loved me and forgave. A son was sent to 
my friend and months afterwards my dark- 
eyed baby girl was sent to my darling wife. 
When this friend on his deathbed asked me 
to betroth my daughter to his eldest born 
son, could I refuse? Nina, child, I would 
have drained my heart of its last drop of life- 
blood for his dear sake. The secret of his 
family was an awful one, yet no disgrace was 
attached to it. Oh ! if my own record had 
only been as stainless as his. Lunacy had 


Darcy Pinckney 


341 


run through the male portion of his family. 
I could not see him, through the denial of 
what I then considered a mere whim, die 
perhaps a maniac. I made the promise, also 
bound myself by that document to fulfill it. 
I asked him if he feared for your cousin’s 
reason? His face grew pale as he said, “My 
child has never shown any symptoms of lu- 
nacy, yet any sudden sorrow might make 
him what for a single generation his family 
has escaped, a raving madman. Much as he 
loves you he would rather give you up than 
to learn that you came to him an unwilling 
bride. Yet this might cause the loss of his 
reason.” ’ 

“Ages seemed to have passed in those few 
moments, so careworn had his face become. 
A great wave of pity filled my heart. My 
resolve was made. 

“ ‘Father, dear father,’ I cried, ‘I abide by 
your decision!’ 

“ ‘God bless you, my daughter !’ was all he 
said. 

“The same evening I parted with the young 
artist. He went to America. I never met 
him afterwards, though years ago I heard 
that he was dead. I became a bride when 
fourteen years of age. Carlos and I lived 
happily together. I never had cause to re- 
gret my marriage and soon learned to love 
my young husband with a deep, womanly 
love. You and your brother were both quite 


342 


Darcy Pinckney 


small when he was snatched from my side 
by the officers of the dreaded Spanish inqui- 
sition. Leaving little Carlos with my father, 
I started with you and a nurse in search of 
my husband. You were stolen by your 
nurse. Then for years I sought both hus- 
band and child. My long search was with- 
out success until by mere accident I saw 
your picture, also learned your name and 
place of residence, and wrote to Mr. Hartly. 
You were with me when your father was re- 
stored to my love and care. I have told you 
about my years of weary loneliness, a widow 
and childless, while perhaps my husband 
lived, and while two sweet children bore his 
name.” 

“Oh! mamma!” Nina cried, a sudden pal- 
lor overspreading her lovely face, “does my 
brother know?” 

“Yes, dear, the history of his house was 
related to him long ago. The most noted 
physicians in Italy say that the dread curse 
has passed away and that your brother need 
have no fear for the future.” 

“I am very glad to hear this, yet I see now 
that it is best that Ernest never came. This 
must have separated us. You have done 
right in telling me, dear mother.” 

“My child, would that I could share your 
trouble, or had the power to shield you from 
sorrow,” and fondly kissing her daughter the 
lady left the room. 


Darcy Pinckney 


343 


Two evenings later a group of English 
friends were being entertained by the hos- 
pitable mistress of Villa Catelone. A sump- 
tuous repast had been served. Some of the 
guests were seated in the drawing-room, 
others sauntered through the conservatory 
admiring the lovely flowers and delicate 
house plants growing luxuriantly there. In 
the room were the countess, Lord Alfred 
Villiers and his Italian bride, George Pos- 
onby and his lovely wife, Nina and Carlos. 
The meeting between the relatives had been 
pleasant, and they, together with the Pos- 
onbys, had promised to make the villa their 
home while in Italy. Two lovely children, 
twins, a boy and girl, Harrie and Inez by 
name, blessed the fond heart of the gentle 
Lady Marian, and were the pride of the 
handsome father. They were also at the 
villa, and so merry and winsome were their 
ways that they were petted by every one, and 
at once became favorites with both the coun- 
tess and her daughter. 

A servant entered the room and handed 
to his mistress a card on a silver waiter. 

Glancing hastily at the name she said, “A 
visitor to see you, Nina!” Then to the ser- 
vant, “Show the gentleman into the front 
room.” 

“A gentleman to see me, mamma?” 

“Yes, dear, an esteemed friend. So pre- 


344 


Darcy Pinckney 


pare yourself for a very pleasant surprise. 
We will excuse you, dear, until you see him.” 

“Thanks, mamma,” and with a glad smile, 
that had long been a stranger to her pale 
face, she left the room. 

“Who is this friend?” was the query upper- 
most in her mind. “Can it be Ernest?” 

As she opened the door the question was 
solved. Standing near the table in the center 
of the room was the man whom she so long 
had loved. She met him with a glad cry, for, 
with a true instinct, the knowledge came to 
her that, after all those years of weary, pa- 
tient waiting he had never been disloyal to 
her love. Her woman’s heart told her this; 
the next moment she was clasped in his 
arms. 

“Oh ! Ernest, is this only a dream ? or are 
you really here, and true to me?” 

“It is no dream, dear love, unless it is a 
dream of our future happiness. I am here, 
and true to you as I have ever been. 
Nothing shall ever part us again. I have 
come for my bride. As such you will return 
with me to America. Many loving hearts 
await you yonder in my home, sweet one. 

I have not the wealth to offer you that I once 
had. I am a poor man now, but I have a 
stout heart and a strong arm, although I 
lost my left arm in Virginia. I am maimed; 
yet will you be my wife?” 

Gently, tenderly, she lifted the empty coat 


Darcy Pinckney 


845 


sleeve. Lovingly, caressingly, she pressed 
her lips upon its glossy folds. Then raising 
her sweet face she replied as her dark eyes 
met his, “This could only make you dearer 
to me, if that were possible. I give you the 
same answer that I gave you long ago. And 
I am not unfitted to be a poor man’s wife, 
I, too, can work, and have learned to become 
quite useful.” 

They sat there with clasped hands until 
the shadows of twilight crept through the 
half-closed Venetian blinds, explaining the 
misunderstanding that had caused so much 
pain to both. 

“Yet, why should she have hated me? I 
never even knew her. But, Ernest, I can 
forgive her, for it was through love of you.” 

“No, my darling, she never loved me. She 
loved another, one who could not return her 
love.” 

Then he told of the marriage at the con- 
vent, or, rather, at the cathedral, also of the 
terrible tragedy enacted there. The lady 
shuddered. 

“It was so sad, so awful. I pity her very 
much, for it must be the saddest thing in all 
this world to love and not be loved in re- 
turn.” 

“Everything has' been explained,” she said, 
as a happy flush suffused her dark face. 

“I have been selfish, keeping you to my- 
self all this time. Come, you will meet 


346 Darcy Pinckney 

friends in the drawing-room who will be glad 
to see you.” 

Linking her arm through his they passed 
across the hall into the room beyond, from 
whence issued the sounds of laughter and 
merry voices. The mother hastened to meet 
them. The guests, old friends of his own, 
greeted him warmly, while Inez and Carlos 
were introduced to him. 

The guests retired early. Carlos had gone 
to meet Lord Neville by appointment. The 
young lover related to the countess the dark 
plot which had been so successfully woven. 
Then, as he glanced at the lovely face of his 
betrothed, he turned to her mother and said : 
“You will consent to our speedy union? 
Nina needs the fresh, bracing air of America 
to recall the roses to her sweet face.” 

“The truant roses will return,” the lady 
replied, adding, in a sad voice, “Yet I will lose 
my daughter.” 

“No, mamma, do you not remember the 
pretty lines which you read to me out of the 
charming English novel, ‘John Halifax, Gen- 
tleman,’ a few weeks ago : 

“ ‘My son is my son until he gets him a wife, 

My daughter is my daughter all of her life.’ ” 

“You said then that there was truth in the 
lines, mamma.” 

“I admit the truth now, my darling, yet in 


Darcy Pinckney 


347 


your new happiness you will learn to do with- 
out the mother love.” 

“No, never, dear mamma, so do not let a 
single shadow cloud your sweet face, nor a 
doubt of my fond love enter your gentle 
heart, for your daughter will be your daugh- 
ter all of her life.” 

The girl’s gentle courtesy to her mother 
made the fond lover only love her more 
dearly, for he had been raised in the belief 
that next to God children should venerate 
their parents. It was with pleasure that he 
noticed this trait of filial tenderness in his 
affianced wife. 

A few days later, as they returned from a 
ride, he said, “I am so glad, my darling, to 
see the roses blooming on your sweet face 
again.” 

“I have not been accustomed to these 
early morning rides,” she replied archly. 

“Is it only the fresh morning air that gives 
you such a lovely flush? or is it the pleasant 
company as well?” he inquired laughingly, 
although there was a deep earnestness in his 
voice that she at once detected. 

“I see that I must plead guilty. Yes, 
morning rides are delightful especially when 
we are accompanied by one we like.” 

“Like is a cold word, Nina.” 

“Yet, Ernest, I do like you very much.” 
After a short pause she added, “Have you 


348 Darcy Pinckney 

written to Clara to include Italy in her 
route?” 

“Yes, her only child is in very delicate 
health and the physicians advised her to 
travel in Europe, so I wrote to her to bring 
him here. If she comes she will be accom- 
panied by Miss Nellie Walsingham.” 

“Will not Lily come also?” 

“No, father could not spare them both.” 

“I am sorry, for I had hoped that your pet 
would come with Clara.” 

“Never mind, you shall see her soon, my 
darling, for you and I will make a part of the 
homeward-bound party when they return.” 

“So soon, Ernest?” 

“Dear one, it will not be too soon. Have 
I not waited with patience? When you left 
England my heart was almost broken over 
our separation. Yet I tried to think that we 
would be reunited soon. Years have passed 
since then, four terrible years of war, an- 
archy and bloodshed. I was coming to seek 
you to learn if you had written that cruel let- 
ter, when the trumpet of war first sounded. 
I joined the ranks of my country’s soldiers. 
Only one reflection consoled me — you were 
here in security. Yet I could have sworn 
when I was wounded that you bent above 
me, that your sweet eyes gazed into mine. 
I strove to speak and fainted. When I be- 
came conscious the sweet vision was gone. 
I inquired and was told that it was only a 


Darcy Pinckney 


349 


Sister of Mercy, a Sister Bertha. I smiled 
at my folly in thinking that any woman ex- 
cept her mother, could resemble my peerless 
Nina. All through that long, bitter struggle 
did I think that when the war closed I would 
visit you. I could not give you up. Then 
illness and family troubles detained me, while 
our circumstances were so reduced that I 
must needs find employment. So I went 
bravely to work, telling no one of my sweet 
hopes, dreaming only of the woman dearest 
in the world to me, thinking of her as true 
to me through all those long years, and hop- 
ing that a time of happiness was in store for 
me. 

‘'The time crept slowly by. I was getting 
older, and the query often came to me, ‘Can 
she love me as she loved the gay young 
American who once shared a home with her? 
He was what the world called handsome and 
was wealthy. Now he is older, looks hag- 
gard and worn, with traces of suffering about 
mouth and chin, is both poor and crippled. 
Can she love me now?’ Yet there was ever 
a glad echo in my heart of the little word 
that you blushingly whispered to me years 
ago in England. With this dear assurance 
I worked on. Success attended me. I was 
soon able to leave home and come to you, 
and had started when I met one who gave 
proofs of your faith to me.” 


350 


Darcy Pinckney 


“Did you not think that I was growing- 
older, too, Ernest?” 

“I knew that your heart would never grow 
old, darling. While I admired your beauty 
and gloried in it, I valued the pure, fond 
heart above beauty, talent or anything else.” 

“Did you not think that I, too, could over- 
look the change wrought by the unsparing 
hand of time?” she asked earnestly. 

“Yes, love, I deemed you all that was good 
and holy in womanhood, felt that you were 
true, and that no other man would ever be 
blessed with the love that had been given to 
me. Why that cloud upon your brow, my 
darling ?” 

“Ernest,” she said, raising her glorious 
eyes to his face, “there is a sad story con- 
nected with my family, a story of sorrow and 
disgrace. If, after you hear all, your love is 
still strong, I will become your wife. If not, 
I cannot blame you. I will still acknowledge 
you to be the most noble of men. You can 
go your own way, striving to forget me. I 
can find work here among the poor until the 
Master calls me.” The dark eyes filled with 
tears, while the sweet voice was choked and 
dry. 

The next moment her hands were clasped 
within his, his eyes gazing fondly on her pale 
face. 

“And the thought of this story drives the 
color from your dear face? Tell me all, dar- 


Darcy Pinckney 


351 


ling, and see how true I am. Yet, no ! if it is 
so painful do not speak of it.” 

“No! no! I should have told you before 
now. I only heard it the day that you came. 
You will forgive me, the dream was so sweet 
that I lingered to live in it a little while. 
Now I find it doubly hard to tell you.” 

With a blanched face and a trembling 
voice she told him all that had been made 
known to her by her mother. The young 
man listened in silence. Not for a second 
did he release the small hands which he held 
clasped closely to his throbbing heart. 

“My darling,” he said, as he drew her to 
him, “do you think that even for a moment 
my man’s heart could shrink from anything 
that your gentle mother considered it a duty 
to perform? Nina, dearest, you judge me 
wrongly. Yet you have done right in telling 
me this. Who would cherish you so ten- 
derly, guard you so fondly, so carefully, as 
would the man who is willing, if need be, to 
die for you? You could not think me so 
utterly base as to imagine that I would de- 
sert you because of the fault of another ? 
Never fear for the future, dear love. Forget 
all that you have told me. My love shall 
shield your life. I will name the day that 
makes you my own. On the night of my 
sister’s arrival you must take my name. 
There is no use in saying nay, dear one, only 


352 


Darcy Pinckney 


say that in the years to come you will fully 
trust me.” 

“Trust you! Ah! Ernest, I loved and 
thought you perfect before; now I know 
that you are the noblest man God ever made, 
and I feel that you will be ever tender and 
true.” 

It was in the early part of summer that a 
hundred chosen guests assembled to witness 
the marriage ceremony about to take place. 
The night was a lovely moonlit one, the villa 
looked beautiful, reflected by the light of a 
thousand lamps. Clambering vines wreathed 
the marble pillars and drooped in graceful 
festoons from the frescoed ceiling of the 
piazza. The snowy flooring, carved benches, 
and easy straw chairs, fit for either a morn- 
ing lounge or an afternoon siesta, rendered 
the place cozy and home-like. Eight, fancy 
stands were scattered about, covered with 
massive silver waiters, heaped with both 
fruit and flowers. There were also two large 
sideboards on which were arranged elegantly 
cut-glass goblets, pitchers of glass, porcelain 
and china, containing ice water, lemonade 
and wine. Large mattings of India straw, 
quaintly plaited and prettily stained, were 
placed about the floor, and the long, wide 
steps of pure white marble were guarded on 
each side by lions coiichant. The wide fold- 
ing-doors were thrown open, showing the 
cool hall. The windows were raised, cur- 


Darcy Pinckney 


353 


tains of rich lace floating in the air, the 
perfumed breeze sweeping through the apart- 
ment. The various rooms were prettily 
decorated with flowers and evergreens, hand- 
some mirrors covered the walls, elegant 
etageres graced the corners of the room, the 
furniture was rich and graceful, Venetian in 
both material and make. The large draw- 
ing-room was brilliantly lit by the splendid 
chandelier that hung suspended by silver 
chains from the center of the ceiling. Ser- 
vants passed hither and thither through the 
long halls carrying refreshments to the 
guests who were scattered in groups 
through the rooms. The only topic of con- 
versation was the approaching nuptials of 
the young American and the lovely Italian 
girl, for this was Nina Mendoza’s wedding 
night. 

Very lovely she looked in her dress of rich 
white silk, covered with an overskirt of lace 
as fine as was ever woven in eastern looms; 
the lace skirt looped with pearls and orange 
blossoms; the sleeves made full and loose, 
giving a glimpse of the dainty arms; the 
high corsage composed of lace, pearls and 
flowers ; the soft, dark hair not worn in the 
prevailing style, but folded in smooth bands 
across the front, and arranged in a massive 
coil at the back of the superb head; a half- 
wreath of orange blossoms and lilies of the 
53 


354 


Darcy Pinckney 


valley, gemmed with clusters of diamonds, 
confined the exquisite bridal veil ; white 
satin slippers, ornamented with diamond 
buckles, encased the small feet, and kid 
gloves, trimmed with rare lace, enveloped the 
dainty hands. 

“Are you satisfied with my looks, mam- 
ma?’' 

“More than satisfied, my darling,” and the 
clear voice quivered. To no one else would 
she give the loving office of even arranging 
a fold of lace, preferring to do it with her 
own hands. 

For several moments they were alone. 
Gentle and wise was the motherly counsel 
poured into the young girl’s ear. Low and 
earnest was the sweet voice as she spoke of 
the coming separation. Her lips quivered as 
tears forced themselves out of the soft dark 
eyes. 

“Mother, dearest mother, I am not worthy 
of so much love, not worthy of those tears, 
my precious mother. In all the years to 
come I will remember this sweet, sad hour. 
I will strive to be like the gentle one, my 
earthly guiding star, my own much-loved 
mother.” 

Tears quivered through the silvery sweet- 
.ness of her voice, and clasping her fair lace- 
clad arms about her mother’s neck, she 
pressed the tear-stained face to her bosom 


Darcy Pinckney 


355 


and kissed the sweet lips, while tears drop- 
ped from her own bright eyes, 

“You must not weep, dear one, on this 
your bridal night. I cannot blame you, love, 
for leaving the parental roof for a home of 
your own. Wear your brightest smile, for 
Ernest is worthy of you and I am proud of 
the son my daughter gives me.” Taking an 
elegant case from a table, she added, “Here 
are jewels, the gift he sends to you, a neck- 
lace and bracelets of diamonds, both rare 
and beautiful.” 

“Oh! dear mamma, how exquisite! The 
bright, glistening gems already whisper of his 
love for me.” 

As the mother clasped them on the soft 
throat and rounded arms, the bridesmaids, 
two young girls, Nellie Walsingham and 
Nita Castrova, entered the room. They 
looked lovely, dressed in white silk trimmed 
with snowdrops and violets, clusters of the 
wax-like japonica in their dark hair, and 
scarfs of lace across their shoulders. 

“They come, mamma,” and stooping for- 
ward she tenderly kissed her mother. The 
next moment her hand was linked through 
the groom’s arm, and accompanied by the 
bridesmaids with their respective attendants. 
Lord Neville and Carlos Mendoza, they 
passed from the apartment. 

A hum of admiration greeted the hand- 
some couple, he so stalwart and gallant, she 


356 


Darcy Pinckney 


SO graceful and lovely, her face in its sadness 
both sweet and charming. 

The ceremony, performed by an Episcopal 
bishop, was as beautiful as it was solemn and 
impressive. 

Many and warm were the congratulations 
offered the young couple, who then led the 
way to the splendid supper. The guests af- 
terward adjourned to the drawing-room, and 
while the younger portion whirled away the 
hours in the graceful mazes of the dance, 
their elders played at whist, cribbage and 
chess, or walked about the illuminated 
grounds busily conversing. 

“I have some friends, dear, to whom I 
wish to introduce you.” 

“Certainly, Ernest! I will receive them 
with pleasure.” 

He soon returned, bringing with him a 
tall, dark, handsome man and a lovely little 
dark-eyed woman. 

“Nina, these are my friends, our relatives — 
General and Mrs. Darcy Pinckney, let me in- 
troduce you to Mrs. Hartly.” 

She received them both gracefully and 
cordially. A flush suffused her face. 

“Our relations I This, then, is my cousin 
Veronica,” and she pressed her lips fondly to 
the sweet face raised so shyly to her own. 
“I am very glad to meet you, dear cousin.” 
Then turning to the General, she said, “I am 


Darcy Pinckney 357 

also both proud and pleased to accept you as a 
kinsman.” 

“I surely dream, or else I have seen you 
before, fair lady. Methinks a face as sweet, 
eyes as pure and holy as your own bent over 
many a sick soldier’s couch yonder in Amer- 
ica. Can this be all a dream?” 

“Ah! Nina,” and the husband’s voice 
trembled with earnestness, “were you 
there?” 

“Yes, Ernest, and General Pinckney be- 
friended me often while there, for which you 
must thank him now.. He knew me then 
only as Sister Bertha, while I never dreamed 
that he was the gay Phil Walker of New Or- 
leans. Veronica, dear, you should feel very 
proud of him. I have heard more than one 
general affirm that he was among the bravest 
of the brave.” 

“Veronica owes you also a debt of grati- 
tude, sweet lady; for although I had deter- 
mined to quit my wild ways, the task would 
have been harder had I not seen the cheerful 
unselfishness displayed by those noble wo- 
men, the Sisters of Mercy, the gentlest and 
kindest being Sister Bertha, or our cousin 
Nina. Constantly viewing their lives I be- 
came a better man.” 

They passed an hour pleasantly in agree- 
able conversation and were charmed with 
each other. 

Mrs. Mendoza introduced them to many 


35S 


Darcy Pinckney 


of her guests. Clara Walsingham’s pale face 
flushed, yet with gentle sweetness, peculiar 
to herself, she said, as she extended her 
hand, “I am happy to make your acquaint- 
ance, General Pinckney.” He knew then that 
the past had been forgiven, and in his heart 
he blessed the young widow. 

Veronica Pinckney soon became a general 
favorite. Nina laughingly declared that her 
cousin had usurped her place, for every- 
one sought to bask in the smiles of the beau- 
tiful Spanish bride. Mrs. Mendoza petted 
her, while the English guests admired her, 
Alf. Villiers declaring that she was as lovely 
as his own little wife, which was quite a com- 
pliment coming from him, for Inez was more 
than beautiful in his eyes. Carlos found her 
enchanting, while the children were never so 
happy as when they could claim Cousin Ver- 
onica as a playmate to chase them over the 
lawn, to pick flowers, or swing with them, or 
to teach them pretty games. Nellie and 
Clara found her to be a most fascinating 
companion. She told them much about 
Spanish life, also about her convent home 
and friends. 

Only one among all those assembled un- 
der that hospitable roof appeared unhappy. 
Eord Neville had felt pity when told of 
Flora’s sad fate, and pity was all. He had 
left America to seek forgetfulness in travel, 
and here, where he least expected, he had 


Darcy Pinckney 


359 


again met his fate. His party was to leave, 
he going with them, and he found it harder 
than before to tear himself from the woman 
he loved. 

Several of the guests had taken their de- 
parture. Lord Neville was to leave the next 
day. Lord Villiers and his wife would re- 
main for several months with Mrs. Men- 
doza, at that lady’s urgent request. General 
Pinckney and his lady had gone to France. 
Ernest was preparing to return with his wife, 
sister and little nephew to New Orleans — 
for Nellie Walsingham had already returned 
home with her uncle — when little Guy was 
stricken with fever. 

The distressed mother sat fanning the 
flushed face, so lovely in its baby innocence, 
as Lord Neville entered the room to bid her 
good-by. He would bid her adieu first, then 
part of the pain would be over. 

‘T have come to say how sorry I am that 
little Guy is sick. Also to say good-by.” 

He leaned over and kissed the child’s face. 
The baby eyes turned, lustrous with fever, 
toward him, while the mother said, ‘‘You do 
not intend to leave to-day?” 

“Yes,” he replied, “business demands my 
return to England. I will pray for Guy’s re- 
covery.” 

“Mamma, don’t let him go. I love him, 
he’s good to little Guy.” And the small 
parched hands folded over his own as though 


360 


Darcy Pinckney 


their puny strength could hold him there 
forever. “Tell him to stay, mamma. He 
knows how to give me medicine. He’s so 
good, and Guy will get well if he stays. 
Don’t let him go, dear mamma. You’ll love 
him too.” And the little hands clasped his 
more closely. 

“Will you stay and help me take care of 
my darling? Oh! Lord Neville, will you 
stay?” and one fair hand rested lightly on 
his arm. 

“Yes, I will stay. He wishes it; he loves 
me.” 

From that moment Lord Neville became 
the child’s most constant nurse and attend- 
ant. From no one else would he take his 
medicine. No other hand, not even the 
gentle one of his mother, would he allow to 
bathe his forehead or smooth his pillow. He 
invariably dropped asleep holding the hand 
of his friend, and on awakening his hand- 
some, slender face was the first that the 
large dark eyes sought. 

Mrs. Walsingham never grew uneasy 
about the child, for well she knew that the 
nurse was a faithful one. She was not satis- 
fied to leave him for a moment with any one 
else, and did not like him to be away an 
hour. Her child’s welfare seemed wrapped 
up in her rejected suitor. 

It was only wh-en Guy was beginning to 


Darcy Pinckney 


361 


convalesce that she noticed that Lord Ne- 
ville appeared pale and languid. 

“You must leave Guy with me and take a 
ride,” she said to him. “You look weary. 
It is not likely he will awake before your re- 
turn. Even if he does, mamma must suffice. 
I have been selfish in letting you immure 
yourself so completely. I have been half- 
distracted at times. You will not think un- 
kindly of me?” 

She had noticed his brave, gentle manner. 
He had found his way to her heart through 
kindness to her idolized boy. Only that 
morning the doctor had told her that it was 
not medical skill but good nursing that had 
been most instrumental in saving her child, 
adding, “My dear madam, next to God, you 
owe thanks to Lord Neville.” The words 
had sunk deep into the mother’s heart. She 
noticed with a pang of sorrow the weariness 
with which her offer was rejected, also that 
he looked more an invalid than when first he 
had sought her Orleans home. A strange, 
tender feeling for him filled her heart. A 
mist came over her eyes as she saw him bend 
over to kiss the child. 

Then with a languid air, while his delicate, 
boyish face became a shade paler, he said, 
“I go away this evening. Shall I bear any 
commissions for you?” 

The young widow sat as one stupefied. 


362 Darcy Pinckney 

She had not expected, was not prepared for 
this. 

‘‘You will leave little Guy,” she faltered, 
while her face paled. 

“Do you bid me stay, Clara?” 

“I do ! I do !” she murmured as he gladly 
drew her to him. 

A joyous light shone in his dark eyes. 

“You will give yourself, as well as Guy, 
into my safe-keeping, dear one?” 

“Yes, Harry, if you will take us,” she 
blushingly replied. 

“I take the trust. May God do by me as 
I do by you and your sweet child.” 

For the first time he pressed a kiss upon 
her lips, in the performance of which very 
interesting act he was interrupted by Ernest, 
who happened to enter the room in search 
of a book. 

“Pardon me, Harry,” he said, while a 
pleased look came over his fine face. 

“Will you give her to me, Ernest?” 

“Yes! But, my sweet sister, I did not 
know of this!” 

“I did not know it myself, dear brother, 
until a moment ago. He came to say fare- 
well ; I knew then that I loved him.” 

“I wish you both much happiness,” Er- 
nest replied. “Harry, I could not give you a 
costlier gem. Clara, I give you to one of 
the most noble men on earth; need I say it, 


Darcy Pinckney 


363 


to my dearest friend, whom I will be only too 
happy to call brother.” 

Feeling that his presence was not needed 
he took up the copy of ^Xans Veneris” for 
which he had been in search and left the 
room. 


CHAPTER XXII 


In the fall of the year that Willie Graham 
graduated at the bar, his name was ap- 
pended as a partner to that of Mr. Walsing- 
ham, whose student the young man had 
been. It was also generally understood that 
he would soon, in reality, become a member 
of the family, as he was engaged and was 
soon to be married to Miss Walsingham. 

Mr. Walsingham’s circumstances had suf- 
fered by the war, as did those of many rich 
men. He found himself comparatively a 
poor man at its close, and had it not been for 
the generosity of his daughter would 
scarcely have been able to keep his head above 
water. 

She had become the possessor of some 
property left to her by her aunt, Mrs. Her- 
bert, of South Carolina, who, dying childless, 
divided her princely fortune between her hus- 
band and favorite niece. 

Being of age, the young girl could dispose 
of it as she chose, so one-half of it was set- 
tled on her parents, they earnestly protest- 
ing against this disposition of her property. 
But she carried out her determination with 
the aid of her lover, who drew up the deed 
and secured the property to them by law. 

Mr. and Mrs. Walsingham, Nellie, her 


Darcy Pinckney 


365 


little brother, and her betrothed formed a 
pleasant family party. The father’s face 
showed signs of care and much mental suf- 
fering, nor was the mother’s countenance as 
serene as in days of yore. The fair, matronly 
face had been saddened by the death of 
Lena, the household pet, the fireside idol. 
Then came a blow still heavier to bear when 
the news came that Guy, her handsome, 
darling boy was dead. After a bloody battle 
his name appeared on the death roll. The 
fond mother’s heart sank within her, and 
when the sad news was confirmed by a letter 
from one of the officers of the brigade, her 
last hope vanished. For weeks she lay to- 
tally unconscious, and on recovering seemed 
a mere wreck of her former self. It was 
many weeks before she could nerve herself 
to attend to the household duties as for- 
merly. Again did Nellie’s sterling worth dis- 
play itself. Even as when the angel-sister 
died, did she play the part of comforter, 
stifling to outward appearances the grief she 
felt over the loss of her idolized brother. 
None but her God knew how much she 
mourned for him, and from that kind Re- 
deemer did she seek comfort. 

To one other did the tidings come as a 
thunderbolt of woe, to the young wife, who 
was also the mother of a child, only once 
seen by the youthful father. Since Mrs. 
Hume’s death it was the only sorrow she had 


366 


Darcy Pinckney 


known. She could scarcely realize that the 
gallant young soldier who had so lately 
pressed her to his heart and kissed his loved 
baby good-by, could be dead. How treas- 
ured then was the memory of that short 
leave of absence spent at home ! She seemed 
to become calm after the sad reality forced 
itself upon her. All the sweet naivete of 
her manner was gone; instead was a sub- 
dued gentleness that only served to render 
her more charming, and to draw her nearer 
to those who already loved her so dearly. 
Then came the arrival of a stranger youth, 
maimed for life, in whom she became inter- 
ested and in whose behalf she exerted her- 
self. 

Mr. Walsingham received the letter from 
the Sister of Mercy and accepted the lad as 
a student. Clara and Nellie both assisted 
him in his studies in the languages when he 
was not employed with Coke and Blackstone, 
those dullest of all dull books to law stud- 
ents, and yet so priceless after the first care- 
ful perusal. They were astonished at the 
wealth of learning with which his mind was 
stored. He was familiar with history both 
ancient and modern, could read Latin with 
ease, spoke both Spanish and French flu- 
ently. It was Greek and German he was try- 
ing to master. They also found he had been 
a deep reader. On entering Mr. Hartly’s 
library he exclaimed, “Oh! what wealth do 


Darcy Pinckney 


367 


those tomes contain.” From thenceforth 
during his leisure hours the library became 
his home, those massive volumes and worn 
manuscripts his friends and companions. He 
had grown, too, to listen for the sound of 
Nellie’s voice, the rustle of her dress, or her 
quick, light footfall. He was growing to love 
the dark-eyed daughter of his benefactor and 
his love grew in all those years until he knew 
that he was beloved. But not until he knew 
that he was able to maintain her as a lady, to 
offer her a fortune equal to her own, did he 
seek the father’s consent to woo her for his 
bride. Then the gentle lips replied as some 
sweet intuition told him they would. 

The young girl had bidden adieu to her 
friends and returned to America more speed- 
ily than had been her intention on going to 
Europe. News of her mother’s feeble health 
had alarmed her, and she gladly became her 
uncle’s companion on his homeward trip. 

Fall was approaching. Her nuptials had 
been postponed until the arrival of Mr. and 
Mrs. Hartly and Lord and Lady Neville; for 
at the earnest desire of the young lord, whose 
entreaties were seconded by both Ernest and 
Nina, Clara had become Lady Neville and 
had gone with her husband to England. He 
had been called home in haste on matters of 
importance. Ernest, thinking of his own 
weary waiting, urged the young couple to 
marry at once. 


3G8 


Darcy Pinckney 


“A trip to England may be beneficial to 
your own health, Clara, and Guy would grow 
strong and robust there,” he said. 

Ernest gave her away. It was a quiet wed- 
ding, no gaiety or display. Clara wished it 
thus and they did as she desired, and only 
respected her the more. Guy was delighted 
when told that Lord Neville would never 
leave him again, and fell quite naturally into 
the habit of calling him papa. 

The same week that the Nevilles left Italy 
the Hartlys sailed for the South, Lord Al- 
fred Villiers and his wife remaining with the 
countess until the next spring. 

Nina’s namesake, the hotelkeeper’s lovely 
little daughter, also resided with the count- 
ess as an adopted daughter. 

Not until Lord and Lady Neville returned 
to New Orleans would Nellie consent to let 
the wedding take place. She was married at 
the Episcopal church and by an Episcopal min- 
ister to the talented young lawyer, William 
Graham. The ceremony over, a few chosen 
friends returned with them to partake of the 
bridal supper and to while away an hour in 
pleasant converse at Mr. Walsingham’s resi- 
dence. 

Among the guests were Mr. Hartly, Ed- 
ward and Lily Hume, Lord and Lady Ne- 
ville, General Pinckney and his lovely bride, 
George Posonby, Ernest Hartly and lady, 
Mrs. Graham, and Harry Clifford. 


Darcy Pinckney 


369 


It was with pleasure that Nina met her 
other protege and saw what a fine-looking 
man the delicate, blue-eyed boy had become. 
He thanked her warmly for her disinterested 
friendship for him. She asked about his 
home, listened with interest as he told of the 
fond old mother’s love for her, and how often 
Eula asked about Sister Bertha, and how his 
darling little wife had fallen in love with her 
exquisite face in the picture. ‘^And she loves 
you,” he added, “for being so kind to me 
during the war.” She listened with pleasure 
to his glowing accounts of baby Nina’s grace 
and beauty, and warmly praised the lovely pic- 
tured face of the child. 

A pleasant family party was gathered in 
the handsome drawing-room of Ernest 
Hardy’s home. A group of four persons 
stood around the center table examining and 
admiring several beautiful chromos lately 
purchased. There were Mr. Hardy, Nina, 
Edward, and Lily. At a side table sat the 
elder Mr. Hardy and Lord Neville and May 
Lee. The face of the latter was still as 
youthful and as lovely as when she bade 
adieu to her boy lover on his deathbed so 
many years before. She still retained her 
maiden name. Many offers had been made 
for her hand which the ambitious mother 
wished her to accept, but her gentle reply 
24 


370 


Darcy Pinckney 


was always firmly given, ‘"Mamma, dear, I 
will never marry.” And in time the mother 
ceased her importunities and grew to pity her 
almost brokenhearted child. Lily was her es- 
pecial favorite and Edward had become her 
dearest friend. His manner was always more 
tender to her than to others, for she filled a 
sister’s place in the youth’s warm heart. 

The ladies had been descanting on Guy’s 
beauty and winning ways. May listened with 
interest to Clara’s account of her wedding 
tour. 

An exclamation of pleased surprise, “Oh! 
Ernest, it is so lovely. Come, girls, and see my 
home in Italy,” aroused the ladies from their 
conversation. It was a large photograph of 
Villa Catelone and adjoining grounds. Ev- 
erything was clearly portrayed and Nina 
could point out each favorite shrub, tree or 
flower. 

“Here is what you will admire most,” Er- 
nest said, as he placed another card in his 
wife’s hand. 

“Yes, dear, I like this best. It is only the 
house, but there on the balcony sit mamma 
and Carlos, while little Nina stands near 
mamma. Ernest, I prize them very much. 
You did not tell me of this.” 

“No, dear, I wished to surprise you.” 
Turning to Lily, he said, “There, pet, I know 
what a little rebel you used to be, and how 
you loved our heroes. There are a lot of 


Darcy Pinckney 


371 


pictures, most of them good photographs, 
of our most skilful officers, also a picture of 
your favorite Fort Sumter; and there is one 
of the hero’s prison, Fortress Monroe. 
Don’t look so sober, little one.” 

‘‘I can’t help feeling sad when I think of 
the shame in their having put him there. I 
love our good, noble President, and his pic- 
ture will have a place of honor in my album, 
the first page.” 

‘‘Yes, Ernest, I must tell you about an- 
other of our little sister’s patriotic freaks. 
Papa gave her another album to-day. She 
said that General Lee came second to none, 
so she gave him the place of honor in her 
new album.” 

“I am glad she is such a dear little patriot. 
Here, Lily, is the fancy chromo for which 
you wished.” 

Presenting Clara and May each with a 
sketch of Italian scenery, he laid aside two 
for Nellie, who was away on a visit to her 
mother-in-law. 

Lord Neville begged Nina for a song. 
Opening the piano and wheeling the music 
stool nearer, he led her to it. 

“What shall I play?” 

“Give us something German, a melody by 
Strauss.” 

She played superbly, her playing having 
much improved during her sojourn in Italy, 
and her sweet clear voice accompanied the 


372 


Darcy Pinckney 


music. Next she played an exquisite song 
without words, then ^'By the Brook.’’ It 
was a sweet, simple song, yet sung with a 
mournful pathos that caused the eyes of 
those who listened to grow dim. 

Arising, she said, “Give us one of your be- 
witching airs, dear Clara.” 

“Will you accompany me, Harry?” 

“Yes, with pleasure.” 

First came a Scotch air, “Annie Laurie,” 
then “Mary o’ Argyle,” “Auld Rob Morris,” 
“Come Home with Me Father, Come 
Home,” and “Maid of Monterey.” The rest 
of the evening was spent in conversation. 
In their own room, while looking again and 
again at the pictures, Nina said, “You do not 
know, you cannot imagine, Ernest, what a 
treat this is, and, dear, it all seems so strange 
to me now.” Smoothing his soft hair, she 
said gently, “While watching over you yonder 
in Virginia, I little thought that so much hap- 
piness was in store for me.” 

“Ah, darling, had I only known at the 
time that the gentle Sister Bertha was my 
own peerless Nina, how much unhappiness 
might have been spared us both. I felt that 
the matchless eyes were your own, dear, yet 
could never become certain that it was not 
all a dream. You know that my mind was 
very weak during that illness. I owe my life 
to you, my darling, my angel.” 

She told him all, then, of herself and her 


Darcy Pinckney 


373 


mother running the blockade and reaching 
the Old Dominion, of General Pinckney’s kind- 
ness, also about her proteges and of receiving 
and sending to his father the package intrusted 
to her care by the dying soldier. 

“And yet, Nina, you would not recognize 
me,” he said, in a reproachful tone, as he 
drew her to a seat by his side. 

“Ah, dear, if you only knew how I longed 
for one conscious look from your dear eyes, 
and yearned for one word of love from your 
lips, you would not reproach me now. I 
could not bow my maidenly pride to sue for 
your love. I was always fearful lest you 
would discover me, so I hastened away at 
the first sign of your approaching strength.” 

“And the ring!” 

“I slipped it upon your finger before I 
went away.” 

Two years had glided away, slowly and 
sadly to some, swiftly and joyously to others. 
The Hartlys had prospered. Ernest Hartly 
had purchased a handsome residence in New 
Orleans and had become a prominent busi- 
ness man. He and his wife were numbered 
among the elite of society. No balls were as 
elegant as Mrs. Hartly’s, her tea parties 
were considered as delightfully social, her 
soirees perfect, and her dinner parties the 
boast of Mr. Hartly’s friends. Her merest 
word, had she allowed it, would have been 


374 


Darcy Pinckney 


law for the upper ten of the city and she the 
leader of fashion. But this was not her wish. 
She considered that her home needed her 
presence. Yet she did not entirely immure 
herself, visited and received visitors occa- 
sionally, attended the theater with her hus- 
band, and sometimes shone conspicuously as 
the queen of beauty at the principal balls of 
the season to please her husband, who was 
very proud of his beautiful wife. Yet she 
was ever better satisfied when ministering to 
the wants of the aged, attending on the sick, 
or providing for the destitute. Among the 
poor she was worshiped as a being too 
pure, too good for earth. Their blessings 
followed her wherever she went. 

It was a dreary winter evening, bitterly 
cold. A slow, drizzly rain in the morning 
had been succeeded in the afternoon by a 
heavy fall of snow. Though it was cheerless 
and cold without, yet all was brightness and 
warmth within. 

The brilliant lights in the beautiful draw- 
ing-room of a large mansion on street 

sparkled, casting their bright rays over the 
rosewood furniture, over the many articles 
of value displayed on fancy stands and tables, 
over pictures, marble busts and statues, over 
the rich Turkish carpet, handsome wall pa- 
per, richly bound books, vases of hot-house 
flowers, penetrating beyond through the 
fleecy curtains of white lace and those of 


Darcy Pinckney 


^75 


crimson and staining the snow that covered 
the pavement with a pinkish hue. 

Yes, all was love and light within the man- 
sion. Before a blazing grate fire sat a lady, 
queenly in person and air, richly dressed, with 
just enough of fashion to please the fastid- 
ious taste of her husband. She held a lovely 
infant in her arms, a boy of a few months, 
daintily decked in a robe of soft merino, 
trimmed with costly ermine. A tiny cap of 
lace and ribbons made the little face look 
more babyish and pretty. The lady grew im- 
patient. While she played with the babe, 
one small foot beat a quick tattoo on the 
soft carpet. 

“Why does not papa come, baby? Ah! 
there he is now!” 

Joy beaming from her countenance she 
arose, and placing the little one in his dainty, 
satin-cushioned cradle, met her husband. 

“I am so glad, Ernest, that you have 
come.” 

‘T am glad to get home again, sweet wife, 
to you and my boy.” 

He kissed her lovingly, then stooped and 
pressed his lips to the baby face. 

“Here are your slippers, dear. Draw 
nearer to the fire. Are you not cold?” she 
said, the while busy brushing flakes of snow 
from his coat or smoothing them from his 
dark hair. “And now, papa,” she continued, 
“play with baby and admire baby’s mamma. 


376 


Darcy Pinckney 


Tell him, Carlos, how we have missed him 
all this long week, while he was away/’ And 
she smilingly, blushingly placed the tiny bur- 
den in his arms. 

‘Tt is pleasant work to do both,” he said. 
“Baby is sweet, and mamma so charming, 
especially when she blushes. Do you know, 
Nina, that you are perfectly exquisite when 
you blush?” 

“It is a girlish habit that I must over- 
come.” 

“No,” he replied, his grave voice becom- 
ing very tender, “there is a rare charm about 
those self-same blushes for me. I used to 
think them very becoming to you in your 
girlhood. How much more so now that you 
are my own peerless wife.” And he fondly 
stroked the glossy head that rested so con- 
fidingly upon his shoulder. 

“I am very happy, Ernest. I can never 
thank God enough for His loving kindness 
to me. His watchful care. Your love to me 
my darling babe to care for, so many kind 
relatives and friends. Indeed,” as tears filled 
her eyes, “I am more than happy. To-day 
dear, I received glad tidings. Mamma, Car- 
los and Nina are coming to see us. He, my 
darling brother, says he cannot wait until 
spring to see his nephew and namesake, and 
that they will spend Christmas with us. His 
letter contained one sad piece of news. The 
arch-enemy of my father’s house, a distant 


Darcy Pinckney 


377 


kinsman who envied him his wealth and who, 
they have lately learned, was the cause of 
his imprisonment, met with a fearful death. 
While out riding he was thrown from his 
horse and dragged to death. Oh! it must 
have been awful. On examining his papers 
it was found that he had steeped his soul in 
crime to gain my father’s property. Yet I 
feel sorry for him.” 

‘‘Do you in reality mourn for this wicked 
kinsman ?” 

“I cannot say that I mourn for him, yet 
his sad, wicked life and its awful termination 
fill me with pity. His Book says, ‘Do unto 
others as you would be done by,’ so I pity 
and forgive, even as I hope for forgiveness 
in the day to come.” 

“He merited the punishment, awful 
though it was, administered by the justice of 
the Almighty,” he replied. “Do not look so 
grave, dear one. I, too, can feel pity for 
him, yet I cannot forget the suffering that he 
caused both your father and mother. I will 
be so glad to see the coming visitors. I, too, 
have invited a guest, an old college friend, to 
spend some time with us. He is an old friend 
of your own.” 

“Who is it, Ernest? I have so many 
friends that I find it a not very easy matter 
to guess who it may be.” 

“Have you forgotten Dr. Essex?” 

“Ah, no! And I will give him a warm 


378 


Darcy Pinckney 


welcome, for I like and respect him very 
much. I saw him just before the war 
closed.'' 

She did not tell him that she had rejected 
an offer of marriage made to her by the 
young physician. 

He smiled as he said, “I told him about 
our marriage, while he, as in our college 
days — for he was my favorite chum — unbo- 
somed himself to me, and told me of the mis- 
take he made in thinking that you encour- 
aged him, of his departure from Italy, of 
meeting you in Richmond and of your re- 
jection of his suit. You will be glad to hear 
that he is married and to an old friend of 
yours. He seems very happy, although he 
still affirms that you are his ideal woman." 

“I am so pleased to hear that he is mar- 
ried and happy, for he is a noble, high- 
minded gentleman and will be a kind hus- 
band. He married a friend of mine, you 
say?" 

‘‘Yes, a young widow, a Mrs. Edgar Ash- 
ley; she is very lovely and perfectly charm- 
ing." 

“Yes, she was an old schoolmate and a 
dear friend of my girlhood." 

“Here is a book, Nina, that Ned sent 
you." 

“He is very kind." Looking at the title, 
she said, “This is a treat. ‘Under Two Flags,' 
by Ouida. I know that it is charming. It 


Darcy Pinckney 


379 


is a nice gift.” Then turning to her husband 
she said, “Harry and Clara come home to- 
morrow. I will be delighted to have them 
for next-door neighbors.” 

“Yes, it will be very nice. I wanted father 
to come and live with us, also Ned and Lily. 
He will not consent, as he has engaged a 
housekeeper. He will keep Lily at school and 
has set Ned up in business.” 

“I wish that we could persuade papa to 
come to us, it would be so pleasant to have 
them all. Clara and I will manage to keep 
them with us the greater part of the time.” 

“Tell me again, Nina, my darling, that you 
are perfectly happy.” 

“I am perfectly happy,” she replied. “I 
often wonder, Ernest, why God has been so 
good to me? What have I done that He 
should shower His richest blessings upon 
one so unworthy as myself, and I strive in 
my walk through life to repay Him by being 
good, by doing good,” she reverently and 
earnestly said. 



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